


End of Innocence

by LillyOfFire (GarGoyl)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Abuse, Demons, Eventual Romance, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Inquisition, Intrigue, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Sibling Incest, Soul Selling, Supernatural Elements, dark themes, demonization, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarGoyl/pseuds/LillyOfFire
Summary: Rome, 1544. As the fires of the Inquisition light the squares of Rome, the young priest Feliciano Vargas lives a life of silent terror in the shadow of his corrupt and ambitious older brother.  Still, what he doesn’t know is that he’s a mere pawn in a web of intrigue and that in the end, no one will be spared. Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own twisted mind.





	1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

A/N – Hello everyone! As unbelievable as it might be, yeah, I started a third story (what else is new). Okay, so before we start, I want to mention a few things about this new fic we’re about to plunge in.

**_One_ ** _– I had started to post it a few years back under a different title and with slightly different characters, so it might look familiar to you for that reason, but it just wasn’t the right time for it then, so I took it down and deleted everything. Now it’s come back to haunt me, so this time I have to let it out of my system._

**_Two_ ** _– Please do not expect to find any historical accuracy in this because there is very little. While I have done some research in order to place the action in the correct timeframe, that’s all there is to it._

**_Three_ ** _– This story contains one-sided, abusive Itacest and I have significantly villain-ised Romano and Spain for dramatic effects. And no, I’m not sorry._

**_Four_ ** _– This story is not for the faint of heart – it contains **very dark themes and heavy angst** and also some of you might find certain aspects sensitive or disturbing, so consider yourselves warned and read at your own peril_

* * *

 

**“It takes one tainting for a man to become impure.**

**It takes two to lose their soul.**

**And it takes three for them to become a demon.”**

 

_In 1542, Pope Paul III launched an Inquisition designed to combat the spread of Protestantism. It included crimes related to heresy, blasphemy, Judaizing, witchcraft and censorship of printed material._

 

 

_Rome, late September – 1544_

The air inside the small carriage had become almost unbearably hot and the old, black-clad priest sat on the opposite bench was smelling. Bishop Lovino Vargas tugged helplessly at his tight collar with his free hand, while with the other he held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose.  It was of little help though and he huffed, reaching for his cane and rapping against the roof of the carriage impatiently.

“What is taking so long?! We’re hardly moving!” he inquired. Outside, the noises of the crowd were growing louder and he’d pulled down the curtains over the windows so that he’d be spared of the sight of the swarming bodies pressed together, pushing and wrestling their way forward to get a better view of what was going on in the center of the square.

 _“_ Forgive me, _Eccellenza,_ but the people keep getting in the way,” came the driver’s voice through the miniscule opening near the top.

The young bishop sighed, slumping against the back of his seat. “We should have been there already. And it’s so insufferably hot today, the summer is still not letting up,” he observed with a grimace.

“Such is God’s wish, that we do our duty in all kinds of weather, _Eccellenza,_ ” the old priest stated, straightening his back. “We must all toil tirelessly, as does the Holy Father himself, if the plague of heresy is to be purged from the heart of our city once and for all.”

Lovino nodded silently, assuming a pious air at the other’s words. He stole a glance through the curtains, hoping his companion would not suggest that they leave the carriage and continue on foot for the rest of the way to the _palazzo_. The bloodthirsty crowd was mad with excitement at this point and it wasn’t even safe anymore to get out of the carriage. Besides, it wouldn’t have done to appear before the Chief Inquisitor with his clothes tattered and looking unkempt, even if he’d put on the simplest, most austere black robes and hat he owned. The severe Spanish monk appointed by Pope Paul to oversee all such proceedings did not tolerate any kind of vanity with the clergy, thus the sole ornaments he’d afforded upon this occasion were the simple silver cross around his neck and the red-stoned bishop ring that was the symbol of his position and could not be parted with.

“We sure must,” he agreed. Damn, the pope was old, perhaps he would die soon and all this madness would come to an end. “My men have been organized to collect evidence in a manner even more effective than the denunciations received by the ecclesiastic tribunals.“

The old priest smiled, hands clasping contentedly on the wooden rosary in his lap. “You are most wise, _Eccellenza._ No wonder your prospects are so promising, at twenty-six you might become the youngest cardinal Rome has seen appointed in quite a while.”

“Thank you, Father,” the younger replied humbly, bowing his head slightly. The old fool had no idea just how much these ‘promising prospects’ had been costing him… As for actually getting the cardinal hat, that was going to eat up an even larger sum than what he’d paid so far.  Still, he would make it farther than _Nonno,_ and soon no one would remember that he’d not been born in an influential family…

 _Nonno_ Roma Vargas had been a bishop too in his time, but he hadn’t been ambitious in the least, he’d never wanted _more_. Why then have both his grandsons follow the path of serving God? Lovino would have done much better as a soldier, the times were such that there was so much opportunity that way, and the right marriage could have even secured a title for him. But no, _Nonno_ had pushed him into this and his battle for glory had turned out far more complicated and straining. Still, Lovino was cunning and resourceful and he’d climbed upwards, growing even bolder after Nonno’s passing. That until two years before, when the Pope had suddenly decided to reignite the flame of the Inquisition and the hard game he’d been playing until then had also become dangerous.

* * *

 

The large balcony of the _palazzo_ was quickly filling with the Duke’s guests for the day, the servants rushing to and fro bringing in trays with fresh fruit and refreshments. A large seat had been placed near the railing for the Chief Inquisitor, surrounded by smaller seats for the other members of the clergy present. Feliciano stood with his back stuck against the cold stone wall, hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed, the only still shape in the middle of the commotion. He would not look at the three wooden platforms erected in the middle of the square, or at the yelling crowd below, or at the old, stern-looking priests who had walked in, accompanying the Chief Inquisitor, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo.

He didn’t want to be here at all. But it was his duty, he had to obey his brother despite the growing horror in his gut, he had to be here because Lovino meant him well, as twisted as his intentions might have been. Lovino was trying to keep him safe and beyond question – in a time when everyone could be suspected – he was trying to keep them both safe, even if that safety lay under the keen, sharp eyes of the Chief Inquisitor. The young priest moved from his spot only when everyone was finally seated and he came to bow and briefly press his lips against the stone on his brother’s ring. Cool fingertips brushed his forehead for a fleeting moment before Lovino motioned with his cane to the stool placed at his feet and he sat down, without a word.

Outside in the square, firewood was piled up on the platforms and the three heretics were being brought down from the barred cart, the executioners tugging at the heavy chains and dragging the ragged forms. They were then hauled up, one for each platform, and tied to the poles in the middle while the crowd shouted and pushed, barely held back by the row of soldiers.

“Such is the rottenness of the soul. None of them would confess and save themselves from eternal damnation,” Carriedo said after the priests had done asking the questions and the torches had been thrown into the piles of wood.

Lovino nearly flinched at the sudden words, tearing his eyes from the grayish smoke beginning to rise and stealing a glance towards the Inquisitor. He heard the others agreeing, but he stayed silent, hands folded in his lap as he observed the man. The young bishop’s damp shirt was sticking to his back under the black robes - it was so hot and there was no breeze - but Carriedo didn’t seem affected by it in the least. The Spaniard sat with his back straight and his gaze pointed forward, his tanned profile complimented by the stiff black of his garments and the short, slightly curly dark hair. He was still young, somewhere in his late thirties, and his stern face, with a finely chiseled jaw and strong, straight nose was of surprising beauty, even if entirely wasted on this man.

Of course, Lovino didn’t care about any of that. What puzzled him to no end was why Carriedo chose to stay strictly faithful to his assigned purpose, despite the enormous power conferred by his position and of which he would use none. He may have been a simple monk in the beginning, but everyone was in his hands now. The vaguest suspicion was enough to send any man, woman or child to the stake these days and the Chief Inquisitor could make or break them all.

Probably feeling looked at, the Spaniard turned his head and his bright green eyes met the young bishop’s inquisitively, sending a cold shudder down his spine despite of the heat. Lovino held his gaze for a brief moment before lowering his own, fingers clenching involuntarily. Had he seen the faintest shadow of a smile on the other’s face? No, it was impossible, the Chief Inquisitor never smiled. Lovino shifted in his seat and glanced down at his brother, instantly forced to suppress an irritated grimace at the sight of him. Looking pale and fragile in the simple black cassock and tightly clasping the silver cross around his neck, he was the living picture of disapproval and that was really the last thing they needed right now!

It was taking all of Feliciano’s strength to keep his shoulders from shaking while the horrid shouts and cries filled his ears and his nose was being brutally assaulted by choking smoke and the distinctive smell of burning flesh. Eyes squeezed shut and head bowed, he was desperately praying for the grotesque spectacle to be over as soon as possible, when something poked his shoulder. Flinching, the young priest looked up startled, meeting his sibling’s hard eyes on him. Glaring daggers, Lovino used the tip of his cane to lift his chin and direct his face towards the contorted figures consumed by flames.

* * *

 

The parish house was dark and quiet. Sister Anna had finally gone to bed after uselessly trying to convince the young priest to put some food in his mouth and now Feliciano was lying across the small bed, staring absently at the ceiling. He was waiting – his brother would come tonight and there would be punishment. He’d always been an obedient child and a diligent student, and he’d learned all lessons but one – how to hide what he felt. Was that so wrong, to be sensitive to suffering? Was it truly sinful for one to not have their heart carved out of stone? 

When Lovino walked in, sometime after midnight, it was as quietly as a shadow and all he could hear was a soft rustle of garments and the key turning swiftly in the lock. He’d have to be quiet too, since sister Anna could never find out about the bishop’s nightly visits.  The old nun who had been the boys’ caretaker since they were little was half-blind and mostly useless when it came to housework nowadays, but she was as close as family. And so she couldn’t find out. _No one_ could find out.

“Kneel.”

Without a word, the younger sibling obeyed, slipping from his place and kneeling down onto the discarded cassock lying on the floor and which still retained the foul scent of smoke from earlier, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Tell me, _fratello_ , have you grown doubtful?” Lovino asked as the other let his shirt fall to the ground and gripped the iron bed frame with shaking fingers. “Is that why you chose to embarrass me in this fashion?!”

Feliciano flinched and squeezed his eyes shut as the riding crop descended onto his shoulders, sending a ripple of pain through his already bruised flesh.

“Do you doubt the divine justice of the Inquisition?! _”_

Lovino stroke again.

“Do you not see the need for the purge of heresy?!”

Again and again and again the riding crop bit into his skin, making his back hunch until his forehead was pressed against his knuckles. “Do you disagree with it?! Do you disagree with the Holy Father?!”

“N-No-…”

The riding crop eventually fell to the ground and the bishop knelt behind him, gripping his hair and pulling his head back brutally. “Be very careful, _fratello_ …The fire you saw today, you could be burning in it tomorrow! The Chief Inquisitor is ever watchful, he sees _everything_! As little as a look that displeases him might send you to the stake and I can’t protect you, do you understand?! Your duty is to obey!”

Slowly, the vicious fingers eased their grip on Feliciano’s dark auburn strands, smoothing them into a soft caress before travelling down the nape of his neck.  

* * *

 

After his brother was finally gone, Feliciano lay curled up on the floor for a long while, staring absently at the ghostly white of the bare wall in front of him and waiting for some life to return to his numb form. It wasn’t so much the pain – he’d more or less grown used to it over the years – as it was the way his mouth would become sealed, as if sewn shut and allowing no sound to escape and that feeling of leaving his own body every time Lovino touched it.

His body was impure. Worse than that, it was no more than a lump of clay his brother would mold and shape as he pleased, with his fingers, with his lips, with his teeth, with his manhood, leaving bruises and cuts and scratches into the pale flesh. It was possessed and it did not belong to him.

And Feliciano was enduring it, he was obeying because he’d always obeyed and had known nothing else but to obey - God, _Nonno_ and his older brother - and he would be quiet, but he was no fool. Every time those cruel lips would murmur words of love into his ear, after he’d been broken yet again, his stomach would cringe in rejection. He loved Lovino, but he wasn’t blind to his brother’s wickedness, or numb to the dread the other inspired.  

Indeed, he was blind to nothing.

At length, in the early hours of morning, the young priest collected himself from the ground, slipped the discarded shirt back on and walked into the small study adjacent to his bedroom. The window had been left open and some papers lay scattered on the wooden floor, but Feliciano only stepped around them with his bare feet, cringing again at the sight of them. He’d read them earlier in the day – letters from two petty merchants who had been charged protection tax by the bishop’s men. One of them had been beaten, the other’s shop had been ransacked when he’d refused to pay.

Of course, Lovino didn’t _need_ to be informed about this and his superiors couldn’t care any less because this was Rome, so the younger sibling had ended up getting all the complaints lately. Letters would be sent to him, some people would even approach him on Sundays after mass. But Feliciano couldn’t do anything about it, he held no rank, no power and no influence over his brother whatsoever.

Still, he felt guilty.

Maybe there _was_ something he could do? There was someone whose advice he could ask for, but he’d been hesitating for a while now. To do so would have been to betray his brother and he’d promised _Nonno_ -… Maybe he could do something without exposing their family’s shameful secrets to _Nonno’s_ best friend? No, if he wrote to the man, he’d have to be honest and even if not, the other would read between the lines and guess he was hiding something foul.

And what if his brother’s men were to intercept the letter?  The young priest shuddered at the thought. Still, even if all hell was to break loose, maybe it would be the end of it all, at least for him. Maybe, instead of Lovino’s lips on his neck, there would be a blade.

As the dying candle was giving out its last flickers of light, Feliciano finally picked up the quill and the letters began pouring onto the blank page he’d been staring at forever.  

**_To be continued_ **


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

A/N 1 – Hello everyone! First of all, thank you so much for the support and the amazing feedback on the first chap! And now, without further ado, enjoy the second ;) #ineedtogetthisoutofmysystem

A/N 2 - Okay, some actual facts from the almighty Wikipedia:

_A **Grimoire** is a textbook of magic, typically including instructions on how to create magical onjects like talismans and amulets, how to perform magical spells, charms and divination and how to summon or invoke supernatural entities such as angels, spirits and demons. In many cases, the books themselves are believed to be imbued with magical powers (…)_

_Gerhardt Beilschmidt – Germania_

_Claire de Marcier - Monaco_

* * *

 

 

_Salzburg – October 1544_

The sun was descending gently behind the trees, the last timid rays tingeing the little girl’s hair golden. She was still running and laughing around the fading rosebushes with her skirts gathered up around her knees, the nurse panting heavily and whining as she failed to keep up with the unruly child. She was still at that happy age of innocence when no questions are yet asked and Gerhardt allowed himself a bitter smile. The child had Claire’s cloudy blue eyes, but her locks were a tad darker and her miniscule nose bore a certain air of impertinence which she could have only inherited from-…

Sighing, the old archbishop closed the stained-glass window and moved away from the light, returning to his desk where the one letter he wished he’d never received still lay open, the black letters glaring at him unforgiving. It wasn’t what the letter was saying – for it was nothing that his spies hadn’t already discovered – but what it wasn’t saying, that feeling of hidden suffering which had stirred his own.

Once, a long time ago, he’d made a promise to the friend closest to his heart and that promise had become the bane of his existence. It had taken all of his strength to keep it until now, but now… he was tried again, even harder. If he ignored the letter, the promise was broken. And if he didn’t…

What, good God, was the answer?

Draping a black, hooded cloak over his shoulders, Gerhardt Beilschmidt walked out of his office with brisk steps, following the deserted corridor and then the narrow staircase used by the servants of his residence. At the very bottom, he passed a secret door leading below the ground floor of the house, into a tunnel buried deep into the bowels of the earth.

The passage was thought to be long abandoned, ever since the castle on the hill had fallen to ruin, but the draft of air and the lit torches along the way showed that it was frequently used, albeit only by the archbishop’s spies and by the darkest of his servants, although _they_ needed no light to show them the way when they were summoned, just like they needed no key to open even the most secretive and protective doors.

At the end of the path, Gerhardt went up some steps into the heart of the ruins - a large, stone hall with no roof, the floors which had once been covered with mosaic and fine carpets now broken and littered with dead leaves and fragments of bone which crunched under his feet. He felt watched by countless eyes, even though the only thing he could see for now was a pale silhouette perched on top of what had been once a massive feast table, the profuse black of its large, folded wings striking against the porcelain white of its skin.

“Where is your brother Ludwig?” he asked.

He’d phrased it this way because all children of Lilith were brothers and sisters and chose to refer to themselves as such. And if Gerhardt had chosen to give human names to the night demons he’d managed to enslave, it had been only to be laughed at, since they were _something_ and not _someone_ (that because each of them was unique in their gifts and abilities, but all of them equally nefarious in their core and sharing the same perfidy). And one had to be really naïve to believe what the books said – that their only purpose was to corrupt bodily and to arouse illicit desires. No, they were far from inclined to such harmlessness as to merely feast on seduction.

The pale creature turned sharply, lowering the bone it had been chewing on from its mouth, and stared at the archbishop with glowing red eyes.

“He’s out hunting, _master_ ,” it drawled. “What might be your business this time?”

“I have a new assignment for him, something only he can help with. I wish to send him to Rome.”

“ _Rome?!_ ” the creature shrieked. “That place full of priests a-and churches and-…ugh! If he’s discovered there, they’ll roast him!”

Gerhardt lifted his chin and his thin lips curled into a disdainful grimace. “He won’t be discovered. And you’re forgetting that I could very well roast _you all_ right here, Gilbert.  He is to come see me right away when he gets back.” Saying that, the man turned on his heels and walked away, to face yet another sleepless night.

* * *

 

As he walked down the hallway, all of the servants and the archbishop’s secretaries, men and women alike would turn their head to stare at the tall, broad-shouldered blond clad in elegant, black velvet garments, all oblivious to his cold, indifferent gaze. All they could see was how incredibly blue those eyes were, how sunlight played in his short, silky hair and how the slim leather sheath of his rapier struck the side of his muscular thigh at each step.

Ludwig knocked softly at his master’s door and let himself into the sunbathed study, where the archbishop sat slumped into the plush chair behind his desk, head in his hand.

“You must despise my human weakness,” Gerhardt began, gaze pointed absently to a random shape in the carpet pattern, at the demon’s feet. “For my weakness is ultimate the source of my indecisiveness…”

The demon said nothing, his face void of any emotion. He merely waited.

“I am a man of my word,” the archbishop stated, nodding slowly to himself. “I once had a very close friend, who helped me in the darkest moments of my life and whom I treasured above all others. Because of that, as he lay dying I made him a promise – that I would always help and protect his family if they were in need.” He sighed and shifted in his seat, gripping the armrests. “Ludwig, do you know about my niece, Claire de Marcier?”

The blond tilted his chin, pensively. “She is insane.” He paused, meeting the other’s tired eyes. “And the child you raise under your roof is hers.”

“She is not insane, she is… heartbroken. She loved and she was deceived in her love. Do you understand?” Of course, the demon didn’t. “And the promise I made to my friend was the only thing that has, all these years, kept me from striking down the bastard who did this to her and left my charge orphaned. You see, his only remaining family are his two young grandsons. One is innocent, one is evil. The innocent one is asking for my help against the evil one, but I have promised to protect them both. So, my hands are tied and whatever decision I make, it is wrong. Do you see?”

Ludwig nodded briefly. “So then what are your orders, _master_?”

“I will write my reply to the Vargas boy and in the meantime, you will go to Italy and find out exactly what is going on. You will enter where my spies have failed to enter and you will see what they couldn’t. And _you_ will find a suitable solution to this matter,” Gerhardt said, reaching forward with open palms and offering to him Feliciano’s letter.

The demon took the letter and bowed curtly, turning to leave.

“Ludwig… just one thing. The boy must commit the sin himself. His own lips must summon you.”

* * *

 

_Rome – October 1544_

The mass had ended for a while now and the church was empty save for the few parishioners who were waiting in a row outside the confessional. Feliciano was sitting on the small wooden bench, absently fingering his rosary and not really paying attention to what he was told. He’d barely slept in the past two weeks since sending the accursed letter, dreading discovery at every step because he knew Lovino had him watched most of the time (even during mass, earlier, he’d spotted one of the bishop’s captains keeping an eye on the room from the last pew). Still, his brother hadn’t mentioned anything yet and Feliciano doubted that he wouldn’t have done it had the letter fallen into his hands.

“Father? Are you listening to me?”

The young priest snapped out of his torpor at the sound – a soft woman’s voice – and quickly straightened his back. “Yes! I’m sorry, what were you saying?” he asked embarrassed, clearing his throat.

“I have something for you.”

Feliciano flinched, stealing a glance through the wooden grate cutting the small booth in half, but all he saw was a black lace veil. His parishioners brought him small, insignificant gifts sometimes, but this was odd. He didn’t know what to say.

“Can you open this?” the voice asked.

“No.” What kind of question was that?! Had this person never been in a confessional before?

“But it must be delivered into your hands!”

“B-But-…”

Before he could say anything in reply, the figure moved swiftly, slipping out of their side of the confessional and barging into where Feliciano was sitting. The black veil slid off the woman’s head, a long braid of blonde hair falling over one of her shoulders. She produced a tiny package from under her cloak and thrust it into the priest’s hands.

“Keep it hidden! Keep it safe!” she urged, but Feliciano was stunned, staring at her eyes. Maybe it was some weird trick of the light, but they seemed to have a peculiar, golden glow.

And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone and the heavy drape fell back into place, leaving the young priest alone, the mysterious package resting in his lap. Hesitantly, he tugged at the ribbon holding it together and the rough cloth wrapping fell apart, revealing an envelope with the seal of Archbishop Gerhardt Beilschmidt. Under the envelope there was a leather-bound book with no visible title, but turning the first few pages was enough to make Feliciano gasp loudly.

It was a _grimoire_. A forbidden book, the sort the Pope had ordered to be burned in the public square.

A book someone could now burn for.

_Why on Earth has he sent me a forbidden book?! Or maybe… the package has been tampered with and this is Lovino’s trap…?_

Still, he had no choice but to take it, concealing it together with the letter under his own prayer book as he got out of the confessional. There were no more people left, but suddenly the bishop’s captain showed up in front of him. Feliciano took a step back instinctively, startled, trying to read the man’s face.

“Are you alright, Father?” the soldier asked.

“Y-Yes, I was just-”

“You’re shaking…” the other pressed, his head tilting and giving no sign of stepping out of the way. “And… was someone in there with you just now?”

“What?”The younger Italian frowned, clutching the books to his chest defensively. “Look, _signore_ , I’ve been here all day. If there’s something I can help you with, say so. If not, leave me in peace! You think I don’t know why you’re really here?” he snapped, uncharacteristically.

Since the man said nothing in reply, looking surprised at the very least, Feliciano pushed past him and walked out of the church with hurried steps. In the street he threw a quick glance over his shoulder, but the other hadn’t followed him out.

* * *

 

It was past midnight when the young priest finally opened the German archbishop’s letter. His sibling hadn’t showed for the night, so he was safe for now. The grimoire still frightened him terribly and he had yet to think of a place where to hide it safely, but for now he began with tearing the red wax seal and unfolding the smooth, expensive pages of the reply.

Gerhardt Beilschmidt was writing openly about his present inner conflict and would not keep anything of the reason behind it. Six years before, his niece Claire de Marcier and his brother Lovino had met. Claire had fallen in love, Lovino had merely toyed with her. She’d gotten pregnant and, in that moment, the older Vargas boy had abandoned her without a single word, all his promises of giving up the priestly robes and marrying her forgotten. Going mad with grief, Claire had tried to take her own life and that of her unborn daughter and because of that, the archbishop had had no choice but to send her to a convent, where she was currently kept in seclusion. At least the child was safe and Gerhardt Beilschmidt was committed to caring for her as long as he lived, but as a bastard with no fortune her future prospects in the world were grim.

_“My dear boy, I know that your brother is corrupt and depraved, what you write is but a little of what my spies have informed me about. Still, the promise I made your grandfather - my dearest of friends - weighs heavily upon my heart and thus I cannot act against Lovino. Do not think though that I don’t want to help you and that I turn a blind eye to your suffering. I am sending you this book I have found most useful over the years, in the hope it will provide you with the answers you’re seeking.”_

Feliciano dropped the letter on his desk and buried his face in his hands. He didn’t know what reply he’d been waiting for, but it surely hadn’t been one with more bad news. Still, _this_ was hard to believe, Lovino wouldn’t have gone as far as to do something so foul, not to _Nonno’s_ friend! Maybe he hadn’t actually known about the child? _Nonno_ had passed away already at the time, but maybe his superiors had forced him to break the relationship with Claire? Having courtesans was one thing, but a child…

He was going to confront his brother about this right away.

* * *

 

The _palazzo_ of the count Cellestino d’Erze was mostly sunken in darkness when Ludwig arrived at the gates, but a servant immediately stepped from under the eaves to unlock and to take his horse, informing him that his master had ordered that _il_ _signore Beilschmidt_ be given all comforts under his roof and that he’d come to greet him in the morning.

It had been easy for the demon to charm the Roman count and his family into thinking he was the son of an old friend and offer him lodging in their _palazzo,_ but the rest of his mission was probably going to prove far more difficult. And it was true, he did despise his master’s indecision. Actually no, it wasn’t indecision, it was hypocrisy. At that thought, a sigh escaped Ludwig as he was led into a lavishly decorated bedroom and the servants finally left him to his own devices.

“Welcome, brother. I hope you are pleased with these arrangements.”

Ludwig turned and nodded briefly to the blonde woman with long, braided hair, who stepped out from behind a curtain. Instead of the austere black cloak from earlier, she was now wearing a luxurious, saffron-colored silk gown and several pearl hairclips.

“Master’s message was delivered, as instructed,” she stated, walking up to Ludwig. “Also, this is _Rome_ , brother, so that stern face just won’t do. Smile or starve.”

“This is no smiling matter, sister,” the other demon replied, his expression unchanged. “I don’t know what I’m to do here. Still, I will need your help.”

* * *

 

The mass had ended and Lovino stood in the shadow of one of the side arches of the cathedral, conversing with a man whose face was not visible. He was smiling lightly as he listened to the other, and the younger Vargas sibling felt a pang of pain at the sudden thought of how easily that youthful, seemingly innocent face could turn cold and wicked in the blink of an eye. Still, he willed himself not to go back now, not to be frightened. It was better to face his brother’s anger than to be eaten up on the inside by uncertainty and foul suspicion. He was ready to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness if he’d as much as make an unfair suggestion, but he needed to hear the truth from Lovino’s lips.

Eventually, the bishop noticed him approaching and said goodbye to the man, gently patting his shoulder as he brushed past him. His smile faded.

“Lovi, I want to-”

“I know why you’re here,” the older sibling interrupted him, with a bored pout. “I told you before, _fratello_ , my men are only there for your protection. These are dangerous times and we can’t be too careful, you never know who’s your enemy.”

Feliciano bit his lip, a bitter smile tugging at his lips for a fleeting moment. “Lovi, that’s not what I want to talk to you about.” He took a deep breath, fingers fisting awkwardly into the rough fabric of his cassock. “I want you to tell me… Is it true that-… that you have a daughter?”

Lovino blinked slowly, but the bored expression did not leave his face. “Yes, _fratello_ , I do have a daughter.” He snorted, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “You do realize that nobody keeps celibate these days, except from... _you_?”

“But-”

“I know – a priest is not supposed to have children, or _grandchildren_ , but here _we_ are, Feli! How do you think _that_ happened?!” the bishop asked, eyes widening comically. “Or you haven’t thought about it at all?”

“T-That’s not the point! _Nonno_ wasn’t a saint but he took care of the woman he loved and of his children! And he took care of us!” the younger cried. “While you abandoned Claire de Marcier and _your own_ child! She went mad, for God’s sake! How could you-”

Lovino was beginning to scowl. “ _Fratello_ , I don’t think you are so well acquainted with what _Nonno_ did or didn’t do! _Nonno_ took the _right_ mistress and yes, he took care of us because we were _boys_! In contrast, Claire de Marcier is a nobody and she gave me a _girl_ , so they were both painfully useless to me! Do you understand?!”

Feliciano felt out of breath suddenly and his nostrils flared as he fought back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks. His darkest fears had come true and the young priest couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was better that _Nonno_ had died before seeing this.

“I _do_ wonder what is up with this topic all the sudden, huh? Have you been in correspondence with Beilschmidt?” the bishop inquired, a hidden menace in his tone as he leaned forward.

Feliciano took a step back instinctively, lowering his gaze. “I just-…”

“Why has that old German pig written to you?!”

The younger sibling flinched. “W-Why wouldn’t he write? He was _Nonno’s_ friend- ”

Lovino snorted aggressively. “ _Nonno_ had some weird friends, some very _wrong_  friends! This bastard, Beilschmidt, is rumored to be a heretic and a devil worshiper, I’m surprised he hasn’t been excommunicated already!”He huffed, rolling his eyes. “I can’t believe he has nothing better to do now than poison your mind! You must cease correspondence with him immediately, do you understand?!This man is very dangerous, he has strayed far from the path of God!”

“ _You_ have strayed from the path of God!” the other murmured, his lips pressed tightly into a pained grimace. “How can you have no mercy for the woman you’ve seduced? Do you not care about your child?!”

“ _Fratello_ , don’t make me slap you here, in front of everyone!” Lovino hissed. “Just go away, we’ll talk about this some more, later!” With that, he pulled away and smoothed out his white robes before turning his back on his brother.

****

**_To be continued_ **

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

A/N  – Hello my dear readers!I hope you’re all well and a big hug to all of you who have shown support to this story, it means a lot to me! A little clarification relating to characters’ age in this story: Lovino is 26, Feli and Claire are 22, Antonio is about 37 and Francis will be around 30-31. Ludwig looks like he’s in his late twenties, but his real age… who knows.

* * *

 

_Rome – October 1544_

_Although I think my love divine,_

_And place my heart upon its shrine..._

Outside, the wind howled and made the almost barren branches whip desolately against the wooden-framed windows, partially drowning Lovino’s whisper. He was probably going to faint soon, because all strength had left his body and all he could do was stare numbly at the thin trail of blood running down his hanging arm, all the way to the tip of his middle finger, from where the crimson droplets would leave his skin and fall in solitude.

_You bite and tear into my soul,_

_With claws so wicked and so foul…_

Every letter of the accursed poem the bishop was writing on his back burned like fire, but Feliciano had run out of tears a long while before. Writing to Gerhardt Beilschmidt had been a mistake – even that altogether unfortunate reply had given him some unexpected hope, or at least some will to fight, and it had made him become much too present. He could no longer escape, pretend he was somewhere else, not lying bare and helpless in his small bed while his sibling straddled his waist and made him bleed.

“ _Fratello_ … were you jealous of Claire?”

The young priest drew a breath, as deep as his pressed-on torso would allow and released it quietly. “…I don’t know.” _Sad. In pain._

Lovino paused and sighed, propping himself down one elbow next to his brother’s turned head, thoughtfully twirling the miniscule stiletto knife between his fingers before pressing the bloodied blade against his own bottom lip.

“See, that’s why you should have never read that old _bastardo’s_ letter! But you have learned your lesson now, yes Feli? You will not do it again, yes? And you will never write back.”

“No, _fratello_.” Feliciano closed his eyes and tried to shrug. “I-I think I’m going to be sick…”

“I’m almost done,” the bishop replied and hauled himself up again, resuming his sinister work. “Think of Claire no more. She was nothing, I told you. She meant less to me than the courtesan I’m seeing these days… But then there’s a notable difference between them, in both looks and skills.” He snorted, reaching with his free hand and brushing his knuckles against Feliciano’s cheek. “Maybe you would like to see a courtesan too? I wouldn’t mind, you know?”

“…what would be the point?” _She would smile at me and say she loves me. And she would lie, just like you do._

Lovino clicked his tongue, with a hint of amusement. “The _point_? Oh, I don’t know, _fratello,_ what do you think could be _the point_? The point is to get laid, what else?”

The younger Vargas drew a deep breath, trying to ignore the vague feeling of nausea rising in his empty stomach. “Then your courtesan and I serve the same purpose,” he murmured, eyelids falling shut. It was a mistake, but right now he didn’t care.

_This love is cruel, and sharp in shape,_

_But so you know, there’s no escape_.

Sure enough, the blade was pressed into his skin a little deeper and he let out a moan, quickly muffled by a sudden coughing fit.

“Never say that again!” the bishop hissed, gripping his hair and pulling his head backwards. “I love you! No one loves you like I do, never forget that and never think to stray from my love, _fratello_. That path may turn out to be very dangerous for you!”

Feliciano wanted to apologise, gripped by a sudden dread, but as soon as he opened his mouth he started to cough again, even worse, and realised how cold he was. “P-Please-…” he breathed out, before a new coughing fit shook his whole body.

“I’m done. I’ll clean you up a bit and bandage you, then you can rest.”

 _Stop it! Stop touching me! Just stop already!_ His brother’s fingers carefully applying ointment and wrapping clean strips of cloth on his wounds finally made Feliciano want to scream and thrash, anything to get away from it, but as usual his body wouldn’t move and his mouth wouldn’t open. Instead, he began to shake and sob spasmodically and continued to do so long after his brother had kissed his forehead and had tucked him in under the covers.

* * *

 

His sleep was short and fitful and the thought of the Grimoire hidden under a stone at the base of the hearth eventually drove the young priest out of bed again before the break of dawn. Quietly, he went into his study and removed it from its spot. The leather covers felt like dead snake skin under his fingers, like something repulsive, still Feliciano laid it on his desk and opened it.

_How is this supposed to give me any answers?_

The book was mainly a comprehensive compendium of demonology, with elaborate drawings and long descriptions and Feliciano flipped the pages absently, with a tired scowl, eventually lifting his bare feet up to better curl up in his seat. It was so cold! He sighed, continuing to turn the pages and without really paying attention to what he was seeing, until a sudden muffled noise gave him the very vivid sensation that there was someone right behind him. It felt horribly real and familiar in the same time.

“L-Lovi?” he called out loud on impulse, gulping as he whipped his head around quickly.

With the corner of his eye, the young priest thought he caught sight of something like a black shadow slipping just out of his view, but as he turned fully there was no one, just the bare wall and some bookshelves shadowed by obscurity. Letting out a loud sigh, Feliciano pressed a hand against his chest, gripping the silver cross pendant he wore around his neck all the time, and turned back to the book.

And saw that the page had been turned.

Several pages in fact, since the Grimoire was now opened about a quarter ahead from where it had been. The discovery nearly made him jump from his seat and sent an icy shudder through his bones, yet he remained still, clutching the cross as his eyes fell on the title the book had been opened to – _Daemones Nocturnum_.

“What do you want me to see? What…?”

The younger Vargas hunched over the book, running a hand through his hair as he struggled to focus.

_“Demons of the Night… children of Lilith, are called incubi and succubae. (…) Lilith is a dangerous demon of the night, who is debauched and wanton, and who steals babies in the darkness. (…)_ [ _Adam_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adam) _'s first wife… she refused to become subservient to him and then would not return to the_ [ _Garden of Eden_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Garden_of_Eden) _after she had coupled with the_ [ _archangel_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archangel) [ _Samael_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samael) _._

_(…)_

_Incubi and succubae appear in dreams and take human form in order to seduce (…) Not all of Lilith’s children were birthed, but some happened by repeated transgression of (…) which resulted in their eventual demonization.”_

_Demonization? Is that even possible?!_

Feliciano’s eyes widened in horror. Could someone really _become_ a demon, not just be possessed bodily by one, but actually cross on the other side and give themselves to ungodliness completely?! He pulled Gerhardt Beilschmidt’s folded letter from the back of the book – where he’d hidden it – and read it again.

_“…in the hope it will provide you with the answers you’re seeking.”_

“But what answer? I don’t understand, I don’t-…” the young priest whispered, sniffing, his sentence broken by a coughing fit so violent that it left him wheezing.

_“Incubi and succubae often indulge morbid habits and favour the taste of human blood. Repeated encounter with an incubus or succubus may result in the deterioration of health or mental state, or even death.”_

“I don’t believe it! It’s not true! It’s not…” Without realizing, tears had begun running down his cheeks. “It can’t be! If it were… he couldn’t enter the church, or touch a cross,or… hold mass! It’s impossible!”

But Claire de Marcier had lost her mind and the heavy smell of his own blood lingered in his nostrils.

* * *

 

“Feli, you should rest,” Sister Anna pointed softly, coming to sit beside the younger Vargas sibling in the pews. In the morning the mass had to be held by another priest, because he was barely keeping himself up on his feet and his cough had gotten a lot worse. She reached up and felt his forehead with bony fingers. “You’re burning, you should be in bed!”

“No, I-…”

It was like having strayed into a nightmare. Everything seemed distant and unreal, even the dull ache in his chest. The book… there was something wrong with it. Maybe Beilschmidt had cursed it. Maybe he was a heretic and a devil worshipper, just like Lovino had said. Maybe he’d hoped it would end up in Lovino’s hands instead and he’d be cursed for what he’d done to the archbishop’s family. Or maybe the curse was more insidious and had begun to work in ways Feliciano did not understand.

He had to burn both the book and the letter, then ask for the help of his confessor, but not before… not before asking Lovino.

“I’m sorry, there’s something I must do first,” the young priest murmured absently, standing up and walking away without another word.

* * *

 

“I suppose, _mon ami_ , that I had to travel all this way to see and hear the tales of terror with my own eyes and ears,” Cardinal Francis Bonnefoy stated, leaning back on the soft velvet cushions and taking a sip of his wine. “And yes, I’ve been told it could be a mistake and that I’d be better off away from direct scrutiny, but…” he shrugged. “I was intrigued.”

Lovino sighed. He for one wasn’t intrigued, only irritated but not yet worried. _Not just yet_. “He’s growing more and more paranoid every day, or so they say. He sees heresy everywhere and sins and unwholesomeness and everybody have ended up walking on eggshells around him. Here’s one story for you, _Eminenza_ – one fine morning the Holy Father woke up and discovered with utter horror that a little red flower had sprung from a crack in his windowsill. A _red_ flower!”

“And?”

The Italian lowered his gaze mysteriously to his own cup and shook his head slowly. “He declared that it was a sign… from _the Devil_!” he replied, eyes widening comically for emphasis as he spoke the last two words.

Bonnefoy burst into laughter and even the bishop allowed himself a chuckle before both men became serious once again.

“What of the Spaniard he keeps as his new lap dog?”

“The Chief Inquisitor? He’s a fanatic, of the most dangerous kind,” Lovino stated. “I’d say like Savonarola, but with a lot more power on his hands and we won’t be rid of this one so easily. The Holy Father is very pleased with his work.”

The cardinal waved his hand. “But you know, _mon ami_ , we could be rid of the Holy Father himself and then all this madness would be over. I may have come to amuse myself in Rome, as I tell people who purposely ask me… but I’m also interested in actively supporting someone.” He paused and tilted his head, expressly gauging the younger’s reaction. “ _La sua eminenza_ Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte. I was told that he is the most likely successor…”

Lovino stuck out his bottom lip thoughtfully, refraining to express a direct opinion. “ _Eminenza_ , I think it might be too early to speak of a successor just yet,” he said cautiously. What if the Frenchman was testing him? He couldn’t risk the wrong approach.

“Oh, but why? There’s no such thing as ‘too early’ in this business, _mon cher_! The Pope is old, as are Popes usually, so one can never know… and besides, _peut être_ one would not have to wait that long altogether, if you know what I mean, and-”

Right then a servant walked in and bowed deeply. “ _Eccelenza_ , your brother is here to see you,” he informed.

A quizzical scowl instantly appeared on the bishop’s face, because Feliciano never came to visit him in his residence, his innocent little brother being best kept away from fancy places such as this one, and the younger Vargas had never dared to show up anywhere uninvited. Yet before he could tell the servant to send his brother away, Bonnefoy decided to meddle.

“Just my luck, _mon cher_ , I really wanted to see your brother,” the blond chuckled, two fingers pressed against his lips. “I am curious if he’s as handsome as you, Lovi…”

Lovino fought back a grimace but waved his hand dismissively while nodding to the servant. “He is, _Eminenza_ , but I’m afraid he’s much too unsophisticated for your tastes.”

Feliciano was a mess.

For some unfathomable reason he wasn’t wearing a cloak, despite the chilly weather, his hair was tousled and the profuse black of his simple, austere cassock brought out the dark circles around his eyes and the unhealthy whiteness of his lips. His steps were slow, as if each one was a terrible struggle and when he was met with the hollow gaze of those chocolaty-brown eyes which were usually bright and lively, the older Vargas sibling was suddenly afraid of the reason for this unwanted visit. He could only hope that his brother would have the decency not to utter God-knew-what stupidity in front of the French cardinal.

But Bonnefoy saw none of this, springing from his seat in one fluid motion and floating towards the younger Italian in a whirl of red robes, wine cup still in hand.

“ _Mon Dieu,_ but he is exquisite!” he exclaimed, shamelessly caressing Feliciano’s cheek and neck and ignoring the other’s repulsed flinch.

“Why are you here, _fratello_? Did something happen?” Lovino asked dryly, irritated by the liberties the Frenchman was taking with his brother.

Feliciano inhaled sharply, clutching the cross pendant hanging around his neck with nervous fingers. “Lovi, I want to ask-… I-I want to know if-…”he stuttered, trying hard not to let himself be deterred by his sibling’s cold gaze. “Are you an incubus?!”

The bishop blinked a couple of times, gaze narrowing suspiciously and his lips twitched, his previous scowl melting into a perplexed awe before he burst into laughter, unable to restrain himself. Francis laughed too, wrapping his arms around the younger Italian from behind and kissing his neck and cheek.

“ _Fratello_ , why would you ask me something so absurd? What the hell happened to you?!” Lovino inquired, still amused.

“ _Mais_ he’s so deliciously innocent!” the cardinal observed. “Unlike you, _mon ami_ , unlike you,” he added, wiggling his finger. “No wonder he asks you that, I’ve heard you have quite the reputation with the ladies, _n’est ce pas_?”

The older Vargas sibling stood up and walked to where his brother was, shaking his head. “Indeed, but it seems I must be careful as to what books he’s reading, especially in these troubled times,” he said, watching Feliciano intently and reaching out to brush some unruly strands away from the younger’s forehead. “No, _fratello_ , I’m not an incubus, don’t worry. Go home and rest, you look tired.”

* * *

 

The young priest left his brother’s house with no more unholy suspicions but with his heart none the less heavy. Maybe Gerhardt Beilschmidt had been made to think something so extreme because what Lovino did was more demonic than human. He stepped out into the street just as the sun was beginning to set, almost instantly beginning to shiver and cough and feeling more and more fatigued.

A few by passers’ odd stares followed Feliciano as he nearly stumbled on his feet, heading for the next _piazza_. He had to see his confessor, even if it was late. The man would receive him.

It was almost dark when he made it to the piazza, which was almost empty save for a group of young noble men playing an animated game with a leather ball. They were running around, shouting and laughing loudly as they tossed it back and forth, but the priest passed through their midst barely noticing anything.

“ _Dio,_ _non posso più_ _...”_ he whispered, eventually stopping to catch his breath next to the large fountain in the middle of the square.  He rested his palms flat on the cold, rough stone railing  and was staring absently at his own trembling reflection in the shallow water when a large, black shadow suddenly loomed behind him.

****

**_To be continued_ **

Dio, non posso più – God, I can’t anymore

_(A/N – quick historical fact: Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte, cardinal_ [ _-bishop of Palestrina_ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardinal-bishop_of_Palestrina) _, became Pope Julius III in 1550, following the death of Pope Paul III)_

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

A/N – Hello everyone! Again, thank you so much for the feedback and support, it means a lot to me! Hugs and kisses to all of you wonderful people!

* * *

 

A pair of icy blue eyes were observing the young priest intently, curiously taking in the fragile curve of his spine, the shaky grip of his fingers on the cold, worn stone, his slightly parted lips depleted of color. Ignoring the ball game he’d been eagerly playing until then, Ludwig had started in the Italian’s direction with slow, casual steps, like a smooth predator not wanting to scare off their prey.

“ _Signor_ Ludwig, _prendi_!” the count’s son shouted, laughing.

Now he was standing so close that he could feel the heat of the man’s body and feel the faint beating of his heart, hand reaching out intent on placing itself upon the small shoulder, when the leather ball flew speedily in his direction and the blond reacted instinctively, body twisting and pushing backwards, arm raised for a perfect catch.

A welcomed opportunity, as it happened. Jumping up, his back slammed into the priest’s delicate frame, pushing him to collapse head first and with a loud splash into the shallow water of the large fountain he’d been leaning over moments before.

“AHH!!” the demon exclaimed. “ _Mi dispiace così tanto! Le mie più profonde scuse!_ ” he apologized loudly, while the other young men were quick to abandon their game and run to gather around him.

In the midst of their surprised vociferations, Ludwig straddled the low railing and boldly lowered himself thigh-deep into the ice-cold water to collect his unintended victim, rapidly pulling him to the surface. Not that the priest could have normally drowned, but the demon had sensed that he’d already been on the edge of fainting, so his reaction was beyond mere apologetic courtesy. Sure enough, even if he coughed up some water and his eyelids fluttered for a brief moment, Feliciano did not open his eyes when called and shaken.

Gently carrying his soaked and unconscious charge in his arms, Ludwig crossed the square with rapid strides and rushed inside the _palazzo_ , continuously expressing his regrets and followed by Cellestino’s son and his friends. The count and his wife also stepped out of their dining hall to see what had happened and orders were immediately given to the servants. Since his bad condition was obvious and not merely due to the accident suffered, _signor_ d’Erze immediately had a guest room prepared for the poor priest and sent for a doctor.

The demon left Feliciano in the hands of the count’s manservants, reservedly keeping himself aside as they lit a hearty fire and laid the unconscious Italian in bed.  They quickly proceeded to take off his soaked clothing, since the cold water he’d plunged into and the chilly air outside had frozen him to the bone in no time.

“What’s with these bandages?” one of the men suddenly asked, pausing cautiously.

Ludwig didn’t know, but the scent of fresh blood had reached his nostrils, bringing a gleam to his eyes which went unnoticed by the ignorant humans. He wasn’t yet in a hurry in finding out either but chose to have the others not stick their nose in it, it was better this way. His prey was his alone and he would allow no unnecessary impediments to his task.

“He must have been doing penance,” the blond suggested with a grave air. “ _Penitenza…_ ”

The explanation seemed to put the servant’s mind at ease and made him nod respectfully, looking visibly relieved when _signor_ Ludwig offered to take care of the priest’s wounds personally and change the dirty bandages with fresh ones. He did so with an expert and efficient hand, without much investigation of the fresh cuts and welts further marring the bruised skin for the time being. After the men had retired and the young priest was changed into a dry nightshirt and warmly tucked in bed, Ludwig reached out and lightly grabbed his wrist, thin enough to be fully encircled between the demon’s thumb and index finger.

He was so fragile. So pure. He was perfect.

* * *

 

Two days later, nightfall found the blond incubus sitting stiffly into a chair near to Feliciano’s bed, a grave expression plastered upon his features as he observed the doctor carefully measuring the drops of blood he was letting from his patient. So far he’d only succeeded in casting away the red flush of the young man’s cheeks, replacing it with a marble-like pallor, but the fever continued to ravage his weak body. Bloodletting was only making things worse, obviously, but it wasn’t Ludwig’s turn to step in, not just yet. He remained stone-faced through it all, even as his prey moaned in pain and writhed weakly between the sheets, held captive in a fitful slumber, even if each drop of blood brought to his nose the fine, exquisite aroma of human despair and secretly made his mouth water.

Eventually, the old doctor finished, tied up Feliciano’s arm with a clean strip of cloth and stood from his seat. Hesitantly, he turned towards the demon and briefly, silently shook his head. It wasn’t that the illness itself was so unforgiving, but Feliciano had simply given up, at the end of his strength. He just wanted it all to be over.

“ _Grazie…_ ”   

The incubus remained seated, motionless, not looking at the old man as he walked away with the small copper bowl filled with the precious liquid. He sat there pensively, without lifting his gaze, until a figure appeared on the other side of the bed and he finally looked up.

“He’s dying,” the blonde woman observed, leaning over the sleeping form. Sharp teeth bit into her crimson bottom lip, with the shadow of a grin. “Master will be very angry…”

Ludwig met her gaze, impassibly offering a small nod. “Sister, _you have no idea_.” He finally stood from his chair and walked up to the bed, reaching for the scalpel the doctor had accidentally left behind.

“What are you doing?” the succubus inquired cautiously as he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blade clean.  “No! You can’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d be _tainting_ him! And you can’t do it, he hasn’t chosen this yet, he hasn’t chosen _you_!”

Ludwig allowed himself a small, uncharacteristic smile. “If he dies, there will be nothing left to choose. As for the so-called _choice_ , I’d rather not delve into that philosophy now. Tell me, when men take you into their bed, are they aware of _what_ you are? Would they still choose you if they knew? What are they _choosing_ exactly if they are deceived by the appearance of harmlessness?”

“They are choosing _sin_ , brother.”

The other demon laughed, genuinely amused now. “Sin… You only speak this way because you were human once and bad habits die hard. You still seek to pass judgement on what it isn’t for us to judge. It is only for us to take, sister. We serve no _higher ethic_ in our actions, pfftt…”

He brought the cup of wine which had remained untouched at the foot of his chair and placed it on the nightstand, then ran the gleaming blade across his palm and clenched his fist above the cup.

“Still, we serve our wretched master,” the blonde woman pointed with a pout. “He didn’t say you could do this.”

“He didn’t say I _couldn’t,_ either,” Ludwig replied. “As humans say, ‘the devil is in the details’,” he added, bringing the cup to the young priest’s lips and lifting his head up a bit, so that he could drink. “Besides, I have seen into his heart and I know what he really wants, the old hypocrite.”

* * *

 

Still, Feliciano did not wake up until two more days later and so his surprising recovery did not arouse any unwanted suspicion.

It was sometime around noon when his eyes finally fluttered opened, still very heavy with sleep but beckoned back towards the light. Waking up was like resurfacing from a murky water and his limbs felt as if crushed by this effort. At first, the young priest became aware of the awkward way he was curled up, in the middle of a bed much too large to be his own. A soft, sweetish scent of lavender came from the crisp pillows and the blanket was made of the best wool. With a bit of a struggle, the younger Vargas sibling rolled onto his back and became aware that there was someone else in this unfamiliar room with him.

“L-Lovi?” he called in a coarse, weak voice, sniffing a bit.

Could this really be his brother’s house? Where else could he be, though? He vaguely remembered leaving Lovino’s residence in great distress and going-… where was he hurrying? A sudden coughing fit reminded him of his condition – yes, he was sick, he’d been feeling worse and worse and maybe… maybe the bishop had come after him and-…. It was no use, everything was a blur and even this tiny effort wore him out.

Still, he craned his neck up to look, but the mysterious person wasn’t Lovino. A young girl with a white servant bonnet and apron was busying herself quietly in front of the fireplace and at the sound of his voice she turned abruptly and, face lighting up, she rushed by his side, kneeling by the bedside.

“ _Padre, sei vivo!_ You’re alive!” she exclaimed, tears beginning to slide down ruddy cheeks as she took his hand and kissed it, then pressed it against her forehead. “Praised be the Lord! Praised be the Lord! We thought we’d lose you!”

And before the young priest could ask anything, she ran out of the room, bonnet askew and cleaning utensils forgotten by the fireplace. Feliciano struggled to sit up against the pillows and stared in confusion at the fine linen shirt he’d been changed into and which looked quite expensive. Definitely not something Lovino would have given him, seeing how the bishop had always been keen on keeping his brother very modest, despite not practicing the same modesty himself. The confusion turned to slight panic shortly afterwards, when the room was brusquely invaded by an animated crowd – the count d’Erze, his wife, son and two daughters all barged through the door in the same time, loudly expressing their happiness at the good news.

“ _Grazie, Dio! Grazie!_ ” the count exclaimed, kneeling by the bed just like the servant had done.

Ludwig, who had stayed behind the group, poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue and held back an ironic smile. Still, his gaze met the petite Italian’s over the count’s shoulder and he bowed his head respectfully.

“Ah, by the way Father,” _signor_ d’Erze said, after he and his family were done giving thanks and asking for the priest’s blessing. “Here is the fine young man who came to your rescue the other day and who remained by your bedside all this time, _signor_ Ludwig.”

He motioned to the blond who finally stepped forward, still looking somewhat reserved. _Signor_ Ludwig was tall and broad-shouldered, looking rather intimidating, yet his manner seemed shy for some reason. Also his voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly soft for his appearance and even more surprisingly impersonal, oddly reminding Feliciano of a child reciting a perfectly rehearsed lesson.

“Father, I am so glad you are feeling better,” the incubus said humbly. “I can’t help but feel guilty though, since I was to blame for the worsening of your predicament. I was the one who accidentally pushed you into the fountain, please forgive me!”

“N-No… there’s nothing to forgive,” the Italian replied, mustering a small, tired smile. “It is I who am in your debt, _signor_ Ludwig…” God, why had he been judging this man he didn’t even know? He seemed to be nothing but kind and gentle. But Feliciano was still so tired…

“My family must be worried about me,” he realized, sighing, and making a move as if to get out of bed. “And I have abused your hospitality for much too long, I must-…” He paused, taken by a sudden wave of dizziness.

“No, no, Father, you must stay in bed!” the count’s wife pointed, gently pushing him back on the pillows. “The weather has gone even colder and you’re far from recovered, you must rest! We will send a message to your family right away, don’t worry!”

“Indeed, I’m afraid we have exhausted you much too soon,” _signor_ Ludwig intervened, again leaning closer. His blue eyes, which held a peculiar sort of intensity, trailed from Feliciano’s eyes to his slightly parted lips and back again, such that the Italian thought for a moment that the man was about to lean in and kiss him. He blinked quickly, willing away the utterly absurd idea, even if his eyelids were beginning to feel heavy again. 

“Try to go back to sleep now,” the blond added and, however soft the words, they sounded more like a command than a suggestion, but one he had no choice but obey. His eyes closed and the young priest slipped back into a deep slumber.

* * *

 

_It smelled of smoke. It was foul, suffocating and it burned the back of his throat, making each breath difficult and painful. Feliciano tried to look for a handkerchief to put over his nose, but found that his hands wouldn’t move, instead resting lifeless in his lap, like two pieces of wood. He was stuck in his seat, the chair hot and painfully hard against his spine and the back of his thighs. His neck was stuck in place, confined by the tight collar which felt like a neck manacle, such that he could not turn his head at all, forced to stare straight ahead, with dry, stinging eyes deprived even of the blessing of eyelids. Forced to look out in the square, at the three mounds engulfed by flames and thick black smoke, on top of which charred human shapes stood contorted in grotesque poses while a beastly crowd shouted and cheered all around. There was a stern, unforgiving black shape nearby, sitting very close to Feliciano and watching him intently and even if the Italian couldn’t see, he knew who it was – the Chief Inquisitor._

Feliciano sat up abruptly, suddenly wide awake, and threw a wild glance around the room, noticing it was still daytime. But maybe it wasn’t the same day? The count and his family were gone, but he saw _signor_ Ludwig sitting in a chair near one of the large, silk-draped windows, glancing outside pensively. The young priest sighed, pressing a hand over his chest as the awful impressions of the nightmare were dissipating, yet the foul scent of smoke lingered in his nostrils, much too vivid, if far less bothersome now.

He tried to clear his throat and broke into a cough, then sniffed. “U-Um… does it smell of smoke?” Some distant noise also reached his ears, like a cacophony of cries and shouts, seemingly growing in intensity.

The blond turned his head slowly, as if he’d been expecting this, his eyes which now held a gemlike gleam in the light taking him in curiously for a moment. “Yes, it does,” he confirmed, standing smoothly.

The Italian blinked, propping himself up onto the pillows. Again, something felt off about _signor_ Ludwig. There was a strange air about him and something in his blue eyes, as if everything was predictable to him or as if he knew a secret no one else did. Also, for a man with the build of a warrior, his movements were oddly gracious and fluid, dancer-like.  Feliciano couldn’t help staring at his long, elegant fingers as the man walked up to the bedside and poured some water into a cup, offering it to him and as he met the other’s gaze again he had the sudden impression that the stranger was not so much friendly as he was… _indulgent_ , for some reason.

“There is another public inquisitorial execution, two streets away from here, that’s why it smells of smoke,” Ludwig informed him. “The noise too, comes from there.” He said it casually, as if it held no meaning.

Feliciano took a large gulp from the cup, then hastily wiped out the drops escaping the corners of his lips with the back of his hand. He felt the reassuring weight of his cross pendant against his skin, under the shirt, but refrained from reaching for it.

“You are German, right _signore_?”

“Yes.”

“…are you a Protestant?” After all, the man hadn’t kissed his hand or asked for his blessing earlier.

“No.”

There was nothing defensive or indignant about the other’s reply, if anything it was ironic, for the corners of his mouth twitched briefly, as if holding back a smile.

“Forgive me, _signore_! I-I shouldn’t have asked,” the priest apologized quickly. He’d just made a huge goof for no particular reason – the Pope was openly persecuting Protestants! And even if the German was in fact a Protestant, grilling him with this sort of questions was rude and ungrateful of him.

“It’s quite alright, Father. I’m used to people being wary of me, perhaps… it’s inevitable.”

“Why is that?”

Ludwig tilted his head curiously, as if preparing to gauge his reaction. “Because I’m a mercenary. And so, since I am without a permanent master, people somehow assume I am also without God.” _And they are right,_ his eyes seemed to add silently.

So he hadn’t been entirely mistaken, this man was dangerous by the nature of his profession. And why was he here, in Rome? _Signor_ d’Erze didn’t seem to treat him as if just someone in his service, but like a noble guest.

“Forgive me, Father, I must be boring you,” the blond said suddenly, turning to head for the door. “I will ask the servants to bring you something to eat, you must be famished.”

**_To be continued_ **

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

A/N– Hello my dear readers and why do I only have two greetings I keep switching between? Who knows… Anyway, this is getting exciting and things will get even more interesting (or at least I hope so). Also a lot darker. And… time to bring some very subtle, lowkey Spamano on the plate.

_Anri - Belgium_

* * *

 

He had genuinely thought that the cardinal Francis Bonnefoy was just corrupt and debauched, thus benign and even amusing to a certain extent, but he had been mistaken. For some unfathomable reason the Frenchman had decided to play with fire, pushing his professed need for entertainment way too far.

And if he hadn’t been worried before, he was now.

Lovino found _absolutely nothing_ amusing about the Chief Inquisitor, quite on the contrary and he’d made an awful mistake allowing himself to be dragged by the Frenchman to a dinner some other equally stupid cardinal had given and had invited Antonio Fernandez Carriedo to. What the hell were they thinking?! The Spanish monk disliked any social gathering even remotely looking like a party, had an open aversion to any kind of luxury and display of extravagance and had harshly criticized the Roman clergy about it upon several occasions. However, since he was only a monk – he would not accept any rank as this would have been against his God-given mission and being Chief Inquisitor was only a position (albeit a very powerful one) – he couldn’t have refused the cardinal’s invitation. Thus, he was here, more or less quietly disapproving of everything and probably mentally filling out his black list.

While everyone else was chatting lively after the rich dinner, gathered in small groups or moving around the room, glass of wine in hand, the young bishop brooded silently by himself, sunken into a hard chair, once again cautiously donning the simplest and most austere black robes he had.  He hadn’t touched the wine at all, he’d barely touched his food, fearful of those prodding green eyes. Even if Bonnefoy was easily attracting all the attention.

Aside from that, Lovino had a more immediate reason for concern. Apparently, he’d underestimated the younger sibling’s sudden inclination for disobedience, which he couldn’t explain at all. Could it be that Feliciano had been so affected by the whole story with Claire and their daughter?! And what did that old pig Beilschmidt really want?

Upon receiving the message that his brother was ill and hosted in the house of count Cellestino d’Erze, he’d instantly found it suspicious and with good reason, since further discreet investigations had revealed that a man named Ludwig _Beilschmidt_ had been given lodging under the same roof. A man nobody knew anything about, except that he was in Rome for some obscure business. A fine-looking young man who looked like a noble, but also had the stout agility of someone used to handling weapons professionally and the overall smoothness of someone truly dangerous. But despite all of these obviously successful traits, this man had not yet shown up anywhere in society. Lovino’s men had only seen him go outside of the palazzo in the company of the count’s son and his young friends when they played some game of sorts and a couple of times when he’d snuck out in some dark nights, but they had quickly lost his trail in the shady back streets he seemed to be surprisingly familiar with. 

Also, it seemed that this man of mystery had arrived in Rome in about the same time Feliciano had gotten the archbishop’s letter, which was highly suspicious, if his name wasn’t enough. And now Feliciano had suddenly fallen ill and had to be cared for in the very house Beilschmidt’s man lived. It was obvious that the two were purported to meet and this was the only reason this man was here, in Rome. But maybe not the _only_ reason? What the hell was going on?! Still, he was busy with a million other things these days and couldn’t properly look into it just yet. But when Feliciano was to get back home-

Barely holding himself from flinching, Lovino looked up from his lap, suddenly aware that someone had walked up to his chair and was gazing upon him expectantly.

The Chief Inquisitor himself.

Eyes a little wide, he took in the Spaniard’s tall and still graciously well-built, black-clad frame, leaning over as if a large black raven had descended upon him, equally foreboding. And again the unlikely shadow of a smile seemed to hover on the man’s face as he reached out and took Lovino’s hand in his large, warm one, lips pressing respectfully onto the red stone of the bishop’s ring. But he didn’t lower his gaze, his eyes keen upon the younger man, green locked into hazel.

“ _Eccellenza_ , are you unwell?” the monk asked softly. “You seem ill-humored…”

Lovino felt his mouth dry and the hand Carriedo had just released finally reached for the glass of wine at his side, slowly bringing it to his lips. But only for a very small, shy sip. His hand relished in the coolness of the glass, as if it had been burned before by the other’s touch.

“No, no, Father, _mi scusi_ …” he murmured, eyes downcast and mustering a wry smile. “I’m afraid I don’t feel very comfortable here,” the Italian confessed, truthfully. “I am not used to such large and lavish company and I… well…cardinal Bonnefoy insisted that I should come…”

The Chief Inquisitor raised an eyebrow, visibly surprised by the other’s admission. Surprised but not quite convinced. “Oh,” he said. “I was thinking that perhaps you were bored here, after all it is mostly a gathering of gossiping old men and good wine and fine food can hardly make up for that.”

Lovino inwardly shuddered, rubbed up the wrong way by the monk’s words, which held unexpected arrogance. As if the other knew him well and allowed himself to make assumptions! Obviously, Lovino was probably the youngest person in the room, but he hadn’t thought that his age alone would raise suspicions. Of course, like any young man he enjoyed parties, preferably with a lot more entertainment than this one and a different kind of entertainment too, but he’d also always been very careful about it, choosing not to expose himself unnecessarily, the way many others did. So what could Carriedo know? Had someone told him something?     

“Well, Father, I suppose you are right to some extent. I highly dislike gossip,” the bishop stated a bit dryly as the Spaniard sat down in the chair next to him and glanced around, chin resting casually in the heel of his palm.

“Of course, _Eccellenza,_ no one can blame you,” Antonio observed smoothly but with an air which suggested quite the opposite. “But you know, gossip can be very useful. Very insightful...”

The Italian stiffened and the hands resting in his lap involuntarily fisted in the dark fabric of his garment. “Gossip can be nothing but a bunch of lies, thrown around by envious or malevolent mouths. One should be wary of taking such things without a grain of salt,” he pointed.

“There is no smoke without a fire and no lie without a grain of truth to it, no matter how small. And a righteous heart and righteous mind can make a web of lies dissipate like a bright flame chases away the deepest darkness.”

A sinister suspicion crept in Lovino’s mind as he looked up again and met the Chief Inquisitor’s gaze. There was no mistake this time, a smile was gracing the man’s features, but it was hardly a benevolent one. It was the smile of a spider observing the futile struggles of the fly it had caught in its web. Did Beilschmidt have something to do with this?! No, that heretic would have never risked drawing too much attention on himself but maybe… his little brother had been used in some way? For it was clear that Carriedo (at best) suspected him of something. But what could that be?!

And so, right then and there the older Vargas sibling reached the cruelest decision he’d ever made in his entire life.  

* * *

 

Feliciano had remained for another week at count d’Erze’s _palazzo_ , until he had been back on his feet and well enough to go back home and during this time he had not seen or spoken to _signor_ Ludwig again. He’d been invited to join the family for lunch and dinner too in his last two days, but the German had been absent every time, gone away on some business.

Still, the young priest was troubled by his goof of asking whether the man was a Protestant or not and he shared his thoughts with his host one night, after dinner. The count reassured him gently, but stated that indeed signor Ludwig was apparently a very private person and aside from that not much of a churchgoer, and he didn’t mean to upset the cleric.

Feliciano thought it was a rather peculiar explanation. He’d understood that the man was a mercenary and so of little faith as these men often were, but his desire to keep out of sight for that reason alone was excessively considerate at best, if not downright odd. Men who shunned the church on principle were rather inclined to challenge or ridicule clergy, definitely not avoid them in the purpose of protecting their sensitivity.

Thus, most likely it wasn’t true. Signor Ludwig must have been a Protestant after all and, with the rising wave of persecutions, he’d thought it best to steer clear of the priest’s path in order to avoid a denunciation to the ecclesiastic tribunal. And this conclusion hurt Feliciano, making him feel guilty – the man had gathered him from the streets where he’d fallen ill and had cared for him, had watched him restlessly throughout his critical hours when he’d been near death and in turn Feliciano had scared him away with a stupid question!  What devil had possessed him to do that?! He was personally against persecutions of any kind and would have never delivered anyone to the Inquisition, no matter what they’d done!

The small parish house was cold, there was no fire burning in the hearth on the ground floor and Feliciano went up the steps to his own room with a wary scowl, after not seeing Sister Anna anywhere. This was odd.

Instead he found Lovino seated at his desk, looking as if he’d been expecting him. He also noted that the small study had been turned upside down and searched, even if the mess had been kept to a minimum. His eyes instantly flew to the stone at the foot of the unlit hearth, under which he’d hidden the grimoire, but it looked untouched.

“Lovi, I didn’t think you’d be here so early,” he said in a slightly shaky voice. Indeed, it wasn’t noon yet and his brother only came to visit late at night, like a thief.

The bishop’s fingers were restlessly tapping the hard, cracked wood of the desk and his eyes were cold. “Where have you been, _fratellino_?” he inquired sharply. “And what have you been up to, hmm?”

Feliciano blinked, not understanding the question. Was he accused of something? He opened his mouth to ask, but Lovino cut him off.

“You didn’t really think I’d believe your little story! How you… fell ill all the sudden and instead of coming back to your own house you _had_ to be taken care of in Cellestino d’Erze’s home, who also happened to have a mysterious guest by the name of Ludwig _Beilschmidt_!”

The younger Vargas gasped in shock, taking a step back, completely uncomprehending. _Beilschmidt?!_ He’d had no idea that _signor_ Ludwig’s name was Beilschmidt! And it made no sense either! Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe-

Lovino stood abruptly, knocking the chair to the ground and lunged forward, gripping his brother’s chin with a vicious expression. “What did this man want with you, Feliciano?!”

“Nothing! Nothing! I barely saw him once! And I didn’t know his name was Beilschmidt, I swear! He only told me his name was Ludwig and that-… that he was a mercenary! That’s all, I swear!”

But it was obvious that for some reason his brother didn’t believe him and Feliciano expected a hard slap across the face, but it didn’t come. Still, the grip on his chin didn’t ease up.

“ _I WARNED YOU_!” Lovino hissed, teeth gritted and his fingers intend on bruising. “I told you to stay away from the old German pig and not have any contact with him anymore! I told you he was a _heretic_ and that we’re all being watched these days! But you wouldn’t listen! You didn’t listen to me and now I can’t protect you anymore! Do you understand that?!”

“But _fratello_ , I can explain-”

“No. It’s too late for that,” the bishop said coldly, releasing him and pulling away, half-turning his back. “You will explain everything to the Ecclesiastic Tribunal.”

Feliciano froze, eyes wide, a wave of icy terror washing over him. “L-Lovi… did you _denounce_ me?” he whispered, barely able to breathe.

Lovino didn’t answer, just waved his hand in dismissal and in the next moment three armed soldiers barged in the room and seized the younger priest. For good measure, one of them slammed the handle of his sword into the base of Feliciano’s skull, making him collapse unconscious before they hauled him up and carried him away.

* * *

 

Outside in the almost deserted street two figures shrouded in black hooded cloaks – a man and a woman – watched as the soldiers tossed the limp body into a cart and drove away.

“Brother, I don’t know if you actually have a plan or not, but you are screwing this up and master will be angry! Do you realize that you’ll have to descend from the skies like an angel of vengeance and pluck your silly little priest right from the stake? That will be quite a show, if he doesn’t kick the bucket first in the torture chamber!”

Ludwig sighed, pressing his fingers against his forehead. “Sister, why are you being so negative? I know you are very young, but it’s unforgivable to disregard our power to such an extent. Look, he won’t die now, not after he’s had my blood. If they cripple him, that too I can fix… But consider this – perhaps getting to see the inside of the Inquisition’s dungeons might finally push him to make the desired decision. Have you thought of that?”

The blonde succubus pouted, not looking very convinced. “Well, maybe…” she admitted. “But what of the older Vargas boy? If you know what master wants, then why don’t you just do it?”

“Because his time has not come yet. But I would very much appreciate if you’d get the bishop off my back until that happens. Will you, _Anri_?” he asked, for the first time using the name she went by in the human world. “I’d rather not waste my time getting my hands busy with something which does not interest me…”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “As you order…. _signor Ludwig_ ,” she laughed.

* * *

 

That very evening, Lovino went to a party.

Bonnefoy had gone to a brothel for the night and he was relieved, because the Frenchman attracted too much attention and he was too reckless. Still, even if it was a small, private gathering discreetly hosted by one of his close friends, Lovino half expected to lay eyes on the Chief Inquisitor there too. Now that he’d gone as far as to denounce even his beloved little brother, his devotion to the Inquisition cause should have been beyond question, but he was still keen on avoiding the Spaniard.

But that did not mean he was otherwise untroubled. Of course, he’d never wanted this to happen to Feliciano. He had tried to keep his brother safe, away from trouble, to keep him humble and obedient, but the German pig had stuck his nose in this and had brought upheaval upon them both.  

He sunk into the rich red plush of a sofa and called for a servant to pour him some wine, sighing. As if Claire had had no fault in this! Stupid Beilschmidt didn’t know his own niece. She may have been a meek girl, but by no means unwilling and she had probably wanted Lovino more than he’d wanted her.

Slowly, the wine made him loosen up. Music started and a group of exotic dancers in Moorish costumes were brought in. The host explained that the beautiful girls were slaves from a captured Moorish ship and one of the finest treats on the black market.  And indeed, they were very talented, their simplest moves carrying an incredible sensuality.

But the bishop hardly paid them any attention until the dance ended and one of the girls came to sit next to him, one of her slender legs showing right up to the thigh through an artful cut in the silk skirt. She was blonde and green-eyed, yet her eyes were outlined with black kohl and her bare arms and leg were decorated with Moorish henna designs.

“Father, I’m afraid that I need your help,” she murmured, leaning closer and nearly brushing her lips against the Italian’s ear.

“Is that so?” Lovino inquired, with a face of feigned concerned. “What can I do for you?”

With a coy smile the succubus pulled down the cleavage of her dress just enough to reveal the one single word written in chocolaty ink over her left breast – _sinner_.

“I see… Well then,” the older Vargas replied, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from uttering a blasphemy. “I will do my best.”

**_To be continued_ **

**So what do you know, the OC wasn’t an OC after all ;)) #belgiumrocks**

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

A/N– Hello everyone! Are you ready for the next chapter of this sinister little tale? You’d better be and you’d better brace yourselves, because this chapter is really, really dark. That’s all I’m saying.

**_Warning_ ** **:** _mentions of torture_

* * *

 

At first it had been the windowless cell.

He had kept slipping in and out of consciousness for what had seemed like a very long while, his body lying in a motionless heap onto the dirty straws scattered sparsely over the hard, cold stone floor. Sometimes, in the gaps in his violently induced slumber he’d hear the soft patter of the rats’ claws as they scurried around, stealing pieces of the moldy bread which had remained untouched near the heavy wooden door.  Despite the stale and sewer-smelling air, the cell had the chilly quiet of a tomb and induced the oddly comforting thought that death was near, inescapable, undeniable but all-merciful.  

Now, all that meager bliss was gone.

Now, a bucket of ice cold water was thrown over his face and naked body, sharply awakening numb senses. Feliciano became brusquely aware of the hard wooden table he’d been stretched over, his wrists and ankles straining under the weight of heavy iron shackles.  Above him, the low ceiling was stained black from smoke, here and there the redness of bricks still showing, like open wounds. 

A man leaned over him, bulky and slick with sweat from the nearby blazing fire, his head and the upper part of his face hidden under a tight leather cap of sorts.

“Confess,” the man asked, his tone betraying the routine and the deep disinterest of the professional executioner. 

The young priest fruitlessly struggled to clear his thoughts and wrap his mind around what was going on. And it was absurd, because he hadn’t even been brought before the Ecclesiastic Tribunal, he’d not been granted an actual hearing before being thrown into the dungeons! What were the charges? What had he been accused of? Confess _what_?!

His lips didn’t move, aside from drawing a strained, shaky breath.

The masked man disappeared from his view, moving somewhere at the end of the table, above his head. One of his hands was suddenly grabbed and, without any warning, the executioner snapped his thumb, then his index finger, like toothpicks. Feliciano began to scream, nerves aflame with pain and raw horror, but the executioner didn’t stop until his left hand was done for. And then again:

“Confess.”

 _CONFESS WHAT?!_ “I-I didn’t-…”

The man moved to his right hand. More mind-numbing pain, more screams, then darkness.

* * *

 

He was back in the windowless cell, this time the straws feeling stringy and damp under his bare skin. Feliciano lay curled into a tight ball, crippled hands pressed against his chest. The cough had returned, so had the fever. _Confess what?!_ He desperately tried to make sense of it, thoughts fragmented by the violent shivers racking his small frame. They hadn’t found the grimoire, for it would have been the first thing Lovino would have shoved in his face. And Gerhardt Beilschmidt’s letter was concealed between its covers, so they didn’t have that either…

What was it then? Lovino had denounced him.

_Lovino._

But the raw terror of the present moment had the unexpected gift of making him numb to the thought of his brother’s cruel and unjust betrayal. He felt the confusion, but nothing else. Not pain, not anger, not even much surprise. But what exactly-…

It could only have been something about _signor_ Ludwig, whose name had turned out to be _Beilschmidt_! But he had nothing to do with that man, whoever he was, they’d barely spoken and their meeting had only been an unfortunate coincidence. The letter didn’t mention him either! But the young priest had already grown doubtful of the German archbishop’s good intentions even before, and it was clear now that _he_ had sent this man - who had confessed to being a mercenary! – to Rome for a reason. But what?! He didn’t know, but Lovino must have known, the man must have done _something_ , the obscure business he wouldn’t give count d’Erze any details about.

And this was only as far as reason would take him. Feliciano tried to pray, but the words repeated countless times now eluded his feverish mind, refused to go past his chapped lips.

At some point, the door was opened, another piece of moldy bread and a bowl of water were thrown on the floor, the sudden noises making him flinch and curl further into his corner, the icy, roughly carved stones digging into his flesh. Still, he was thirsty. He tried to reach for the bowl, the arm which had been folded against his chest for so long protesting painfully at the movement, but the sight of his broken fingers was so hideous that he drew it back almost instantly, squeezing his eyes shut.

* * *

 

He had slept eventually, God knew for how long, chill settling in aching bones. Now he was warm again – the warmth suddenly alarming. A pungent smell of vinegar attacked his nostrils as someone held his head up and moistened his lips, then helped him drink a few mouthfuls of fresh water.

“My son, confess.”

And old monk was now leaning over him, bony hands gentle as they stroked Feliciano’s dirty, tearstained cheek and hair. But this was more ominous than anything, because they’d stretched him again on that table near the fire and this time he could feel the bite of ropes on his wrists and ankles. Fear spiked throughout his body, tensing already aching muscles, but fever clouded his mind and made his mouth dry again almost instantly.

 _What_ was he supposed to confess?! Maybe he should have just asked them what it was they wanted to hear?  

Feliciano tried to speak, but a coughing fit choked him almost instantly. Eyes wide with horror, he saw the monk hovering above him shake his head as he looked away and then nod. A gasp made its way past his lips as his arms were stretched even further above his head and his chest heaved painfully with each horrified breath he took. Someone fumbled with the ropes at his ankles and the young priest tried to crane his neck up and see what they were doing, but the monk pressed his hand over his forehead, pushing his head back down, so that he could only stare at the ceiling again.

It looked like a mouth of hell.

His body was pulled forward down the table and with a sinister creak the device was bent, such that his legs were dangling from the knees down, over the edge.

“P-Please… I haven’t done anything,” Feliciano whispered, or thought he did. Nobody paid him any attention.

More ropes were wrapped around each of his thighs, above the knees. They were tightened and tugged at, causing enough discomfort to make him try to wiggle, but then he noticed a sort of pulley hanging from the ceiling and saw that the ropes had been attached to it and his body instantly froze in horror. The bulky man with the leather cap went around the table and grabbed at another, thicker rope, bulging muscles flexing as he pulled at it. The restraints bit mercilessly into the priest’s wrists and his shoulders ached with the strain, but not quite as bad as his lower joints and thighs.

“Confess.”

Very soon, the pressure in his waist and hips became unbearable. Tears streaming freely down his face, Feliciano opened his mouth, but nothing but loud sobs came out. Still, the old monk leaned close again, to hear if he was ready to speak.

“W-What…” he managed to get out at last. “… d-do you want me to-”

But the monk pulled away, a deep scowl on his face. “The truth!” he hissed, waving his hand at the executioner. The man grunted in acknowledgement before releasing then gripping the rope with renewed strength, with both hands, jumping onto it with his whole body, as if attempting to climb it this time.

Something horrible happened. Something _snapped_ with a sickening pop and pain exploded in Feliciano’s lower body, forcing an inhuman scream to erupt from his dry throat. A wave of nausea rose up, crushing his chest on its way to his head and he fainted.

They’d have none of it this time though.

Another bucket of ice cold water was dumped over his head, some of it getting into his nose and mouth and choking him. Then the monk gripped his hair roughly and yanked his head up, shoving the vinegar-soaked sponge under his nose again.

“CONFESS!” he barked as the young priest’s eyes fluttered open again. “Confess, so that God can have mercy on your miserable soul!”

Feliciano started to cough again, each tiny motion and shake sending a million sharp spikes through his destroyed joints. “Wha-… ahhh..” he wheezed, sobs choking every word. “What…nghh.. to c-confess.. what..”

“Confess your heresy!” the other insisted. “Confess that you have turned from the path of the Church! That you have turned from the path of God and have strayed into the murk of the Devil! Confess so that at least your soul can be saved!”

“..I-I’m not… I haven’t-… ” The ropes from around his thighs were gone and the table had been restored to its original position. He heard the executioner fumbling around and he turned his head, seeing the man rummaging in what looked like a box of tools. “Please don’t-… I haven’t done anything-..” But the executioner straightened his back - something in his hand now - and Feliciano went quiet, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You will burn in hell,” the monk said finally, pushing a rag forcefully into the younger’s mouth, between his teeth, before nodding his head. The man with the leather cap licked some sweat from his upper lip, weighing the heavy hammer in his strong hands for a moment before bringing it down onto Feliciano’s left knee.

* * *

 

The mysterious Ludwig Beilschmidt had vanished from the face of the Earth, as if he’d never existed.

No one from Cellestino d’Erze’s household knew where he had gone; they oddly seemed to barely remember he had been there in the first place. The bishop’s men had searched the whole of Rome, from the most luxurious quarters to the filthiest slums, but the German hadn’t been seen anywhere again, by anyone. And it wasn’t like someone like him could easily blend in a crowd, judging by his given description. No, he’d stick out like a sore thumb and yet he was nowhere.

Therefore, the only thing Lovino could conclude was that the bastard had caught wind of Feliciano’s arrest and he had fled Rome right away, his plans utterly thwarted. It looked like the older Vargas sibling had made the right decision, whatever that old German pig had planned to do had been impeded. At least it appeared to be so, because nothing obvious had happened, unless there was something Feliciano had adeptly kept from him. Still, his little brother had never told a lie, the bishop realized, so maybe-…

“Well?”

The servant who had just walked into the lavishly decorated living room shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, a sign that he was bringing bad news. Lovino lifted his chin, mustering a severe but still neutral expression.

“He was tortured, _Eccellenza_ ,” the man spoke in a low voice, eyes fleetingly trailing towards the French cardinal who was lounging on a sofa nearby, a cup of wine in his hand as usual. “They broke all his fingers, they stretched him… uh… with that _device_ and at the end they crushed one of his knees with a hammer.”

Lovino remained silent, nothing but the lightest flutter of eyelids and the inconspicuous clenching of his jaw betraying his emotions.

“Tomorrow there will be the final hearing, with the Chief Inquisitor himself. It’s because… well, because he’s a priest, otherwise they wouldn’t…um… otherwise judgment would have been passed quicker. _Eccellenza_ , the thing is he hasn’t confessed anything, he hadn’t said a word, so-”

The bishop cut him off abruptly, holding his hand up, then motioned him to leave.

“This is very bad,” the Italian murmured, as the door closed behind the servant. “I never thought it would be like this, God is my witness. I thought they’d scare him a bit, make him say what that heretic pig had wanted with him, maybe give him a beating, but _this_ …”

Francis Bonnefoy had paled, his always present, carefree smile now wiped clean from his face. “He must have been very scared, the poor boy. That’s why he’s remained quiet-”

“He will die,” Lovino said grimly. “The fact that he’s a priest makes everything so much worse. Carriedo will be merciless. He will be sent to the stake. That Spanish scum _will make me_ _watch my brother burn_.” Suddenly, he shot up to his feet and kicked the delicate mahogany coffee table, sending all the fine plates, cups and pitchers smashing down on the floor violently. “He must die! HE MUST DIE! This _rabid dog_ must find out just how dangerous Rome can be!” He turned around to face Francis, eyes glistening with unshed tears and fists clenched helplessly at his sides.

“ _Mon ami_ , what you don’t realize is that Spain is full of crazy monks like this one, after all the Inquisition was at its worst there. Kill him and the Pope will just bring another,” the Frenchman said with a sigh. “ _Non_ , it’s the Pope himself who needs to go, I told you. Or did you really think I only came here for mere amusement?”

“The Pope is surrounded by guards at all times! He has people tasting his food and his drink! You can’t touch him! You can’t! YOU CAN’T!”

Bonnefoy stood with a sigh, setting his cup down, and walked up to his younger friend, laying soothing but firm hands on the other’s shoulders. “ _Mon pauvre_ Lovi, I’m not saying you shouldn’t get your hands on Carriedo, gut him with a blunt knife if that would bring you comfort, but not yet, _not yet_! Not until he loses the support he has now. Not until all this madness is brought to an end. For now you must remain strong, let him guess nothing of your thoughts, let him feel safe, let him think he has power over you.”

* * *

 

Antonio stood with his arms crossed in front of the small, barred window, watching dawn rising over the city, diaphanous pink and light blue shades spreading in the sky. Just as the light of day conquered and replaced the nightly shades, the truth would cast away this deep mystery which had been troubling his mind for quite some time now. There were very few people in this world the Spanish monk couldn’t read and now there was a certain book he was quite eager to open.  

He turned smoothly as the door creaked open, giving the old monk who walked in a thoughtful once-over. “Bring another chair for him,” Antonio asked, hands clasping behind his back.

The other shook his head. “He cannot sit, _fra_ Carriedo…”

The Chief Inquisitor’s full, sensual lips pressed into a displeased grimace. “Well, I don’t suppose he can stand either, _si_? Maybe you went too far…” he mused, green eyes watching his underling sharply.

“B-But he wasn’t talking, _fra_ Carriedo!” the older monk cowered, looking frightened. “On the contrary! He just kept asking what he was being accused of! As if he was innocent! He was trying to-”

“Ignorance is not a sin,” the Spaniard interrupted him. “Maybe he’s not even aware of his heresy, it is our job to bring it to light so that he can truly repent and be saved. Besides, breaking one’s bones hardly guarantees breaking one’s mind, if they are rooted in a false belief and no one offers them a helping hand. You should know this much by now!”

The other opened his mouth to speak, but the Chief Inquisitor raised his hand, silencing him. “Enough of this, bring him in. Sit him here, _I_ will stand,” he stated, pointing to the only chair in the room.

The old monk disappeared and instead two solid men walked in, half-carrying half-dragging a limp body between them. The young priest, now clad in a long, dirty white shirt, was propped against the backrest like a rag doll, head lolling against his chest. His skinny bare legs showed from under the tattered hem, ankles raw from the ropes they’d been tied with. His wrists were the same, but the sight of his hands, with the bruised, inwardly-curled fingers was much worse. One of the men held his shoulders back so he wouldn’t topple forward, while the old monk returned with a bowl of water and another with vinegar, which he laid down on the floor next to the chair before withdrawing respectfully near the wall.

“Leave us,” Antonio commanded, waving everyone out with a gracious flick of his wrist.

He walked up to the chair and examined the slumped, broken form, barely concealing his irritation at the others’ lack of finesse and the mess they’d made mindlessly. Long, slender fingers reached out to tilt Feliciano’s chin up so he could look at the younger’s face. The waxy-pale cheeks had a tell-tale reddish tint, flushed with fever. He sighed.

The petite Italian stirred forward, looking up at him with half-lidded, dark-circled eyes, but that one tiny motion was enough to make him slip from the seat and drop on the floor into an undignified heap, breaking into barely muffled whimpers of pain. He tried to prop himself up on his hands and the one good knee, but the effort was obviously agonizing.

Sighing, the Chief Inquisitor sank to his knees next to the priest and gathered him in his arms, awkwardly supporting his head against one shoulder. He proceeded to fish out a clean handkerchief from his pocket and soaked it in the water bowl, then squeezed a few drops onto the other’s dry lips. A corner of it was then used to dab at Feliciano’s cheeks and forehead, wiping off some of the grime.

“Feliciano,” the Spaniard murmured gently. “You want to talk to me, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes…”

The other’s voice was nothing but a hoarse hiss, so Antonio brought the bowl of water to his lips and helped him take a few sips. Then his fingers went up to stroke Feliciano’s hair.  

“…m’s-sorry. I didn’t know. T-The a-archbishop… B-Beilschmidt, he was-…” the Italian stuttered, furrowing his brow as if he were struggling to think and each thought was painful. “…was _Nonno’s_ friend! I thought… I s-swear I didn’t know when I wrote to him-.. that h-he was a heretic like my b-brother says!”

Antonio remained silent, continuing to thread his fingers through the younger’s hair slowly, his gentle expression unchanged.

“… he only wrote one letter back, b-but there was nothing in it… just…” Feliciano paused and swallowed hard, his crippled hands reaching up shakily to find purchase in the front of the Chief Inquisitor’s robe and to cling on the rosary around the other’s neck, like a man drowning. “…it was o-only about what _fratello_ did, a f-few years back. I didn’t know h-he was a h-heretic and d-devil worshipper, I s-swear!” Now fresh tears had started welling from his eyes and loud, violent sobs began to choke him.

The Spaniard tilted his head pensively, his calm green eyes betraying nothing of his newly aroused interest. “And what was it that your brother did, a few years back?” he inquired softly, his fingers continuing their soothing motion.

Feliciano’s eyes widened in horror and he tried shaking his head, but the Chief Inquisitor’s hand moved from his hair to his cheek, gently wiping off the running tears with his thumb. “You can tell me,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

The hands fisting into his clothes became tighter and the priest turned his head, half-burying his face into the rough cloth of the Spaniard’s black robe. He stuttered even worse, but he spoke. He spilled everything – about Claire who had gone mad and had tried taking her life, about the deserted child whose name he didn’t even know. How Lovino thought them both useless.

“…I-I didn’t want to b-betray _fratello_ , I s-swear I didn’t!” he whispered, at the end of his strength.

“I understand now what happened,” Antonio said in conclusion, again ever-so-gently. “And I’m so glad you opened your heart to me, Feliciano. Your torment is over now, have no fear. You will finally be allowed to rest.”

The Italian stared up at him uncomprehending for a moment, chapped lips slightly parted, then he exhaled loudly, eyelids falling shut as he let go of the Spaniard’s robe and collapsed, unconscious. Resigned, relieved by the thought that he’d be soon resting on a bed of flames.

* * *

 

Lovino stood in the narrow, dark hallway of the dungeons, arms crossed on his chest into an almost hug. He’d forced his face to be free of scowl, but his pale lips were pressed tightly into a bitter, thin line.

The Chief Inquisitor stepped out of a room and looked around, instantly spotting the bishop’s slender frame. Carriedo’s face was serene, even bearing a light, relieved expression.

“ _Eccellenza_ , let me tell you that fortunately I could find no fault with your brother. He is quite innocent, if a little… misguided. It turned out he only made a small, involuntary mistake as it was,” he informed the bishop with a smile which the other didn’t return. “He will be released.”

Far from being relieved at the good news (if one could call them so), the older Vargas sibling was employing all his restraint not to lunge forward and strangle him. He kept a straight face while inwardly imagining the wooden beads around Antonio’s neck being tightened and cutting off his air supply.

“Then why was he tortured?” he inquired neutrally, banishing all emotion from his voice.

“Because at first he refused to speak, he refused to confess this little mistake. And you see, that is usually quite suspicious.”

The monk’s argument turned Lovino’s stomach. _Suspicious_. As if people had no right to be afraid, or to seek self-preservation before the so-called salvation of their immortal souls! And of course, _no one_ was ever completely innocent in _their_ books!

“Don’t worry, _Eccellenza,_ your prudence in this matter is highly commendable and so is your dedication to our holy cause _,_ ” Antonio concluded, taking the bishop’s hand and pressing his lips reverently on the large ruby. The book had been opened and there was the Devil’s handwriting on its pages.  

**_To be continued_ **

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

A/N– Hello my dear readers! It just occurred to me that this story contains (or will contain at any rate) some clear elements of horror and I updated the summary accordingly. Now everyone has been warned. Enjoy the new chap ;)

* * *

 

The city below was a sea of glistening roofs, soaked by the recent rain which had finally given way to the setting sun, everything bathed in shades of gold and bronze. Tiny people roamed the streets, going about their business, all oblivious, unsuspecting, unaware. Thinking they were protected in this grand city which forever held the promise of the holy, of the divine blessing, while being in itself nothing but the creation of man. Fragile, like all creations of man.

“The white-haired one turned out to be a fool, he worried too much.” Sharp, black talons grazed the bronze-carved inscriptions on the enormous tower-bell, leaving a jagged indent in the centuries-old metal. “He thought we’d end up _scorched_ here! But we have nothing to fear, look!” Another scratch, this time accompanied by a sharper sound. The stomp of a tiny, delicate, heeled shoe against the floor of the cathedral tower. “ _Some_ hallowed ground, ha!”

Ludwig was sitting on a stone ledge just below the railing, legs hanging in the air. “Don’t say that so lightly. That’s the trick of it – you don’t know where the danger might be hiding. Still, I like it here, it’s beautiful. I’m enjoying myself. Good _food_ too, I must say.”

“The bishop’s men were looking for you, brother. Everywhere.”

“Oh. And did they find me?” the blond asked, with a hint of amusement.

“No. Not a trace of you, so the only explanation is that you fled Rome like a coward after the little priest was grabbed, you must have hurried back to the German _heretic, devil-worshipping pig_ who had sent you. That would be master,” Anri chuckled, jumping down to join him. Her long, blonde locks free of restraints danced and fluttered around her shoulders in the icy wind.

“It would be something if he really was a devil worshipper,” the other demon observed, with a half-hearted grimace. “Like this he’s just trouble… and work.”

“Ludwiiiiiiiig, I’m so bored! This plan of yours is taking _forever_!”Anri whined, clinging to his arm.

“The younger Vargas boy must summon me first - that was master’s only express instruction – and the only impediment, actually. But what about the bishop? Is he not even a bit exciting?”

“Oh, he’s _so_ deliciously rotten. But I must make him miss me, you know, too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing… So why can’t we cause some mayhem in the meantime? Go after the Chief Inquisitor for example! That would be so much fun!” the succubus pointed, kicking her legs playfully under the silk skirt. “They say he sleeps on a bare, hard wooden bed. Without a mattress!”

Ludwig sighed. “That doesn’t sound fun, more like painful. Anyway, he has a part in my plan, but you’ll get your fun with him soon enough, if everything goes as it should. We’ll give him a bit of torment… and a bit of clear-vision at the right moment.”

* * *

 

Lovino had sent Sister Anna – who was almost blind and way too old to do much work as it was - back to the convent, instead bringing several servants from his own household to take care of the small parish house which was his brother’s only property, his inheritance. That and he meant to spare her of seeing Feliciano in this state.

A hearty fire was now burning in the usually unlit hearth, pleasantly warming the small, austere bedroom which had been thoroughly dusted and aired, the rough thin sheets on the bed replaced with soft linen and woolen blankets, and the old, flattened pillows with new, fluffier ones.  He’d figured that his sibling would be better off recovering here, in a familiar setting, where he would be provided with all comfort but spared of his presence for most of the time. Because even if Feliciano was the last person in this world capable of holding a grudge, even he would need time to get past what had happened, to be allowed to forget and to heal.

At least, heal as much as it was possible in the given circumstances…

“What’s this?” he asked the doctor sat on a stool by the bedside, picking up a small glass recipient filled with reddish-brown liquid from the nightstand and holding it up against the light. It was murky, of uneven color and consistency, like the fabric of nightmares.

“Opium, _Eccellenza_. It’s for the pains, it will help him sleep better and ease the fever too. But fortunately, that’s not worrisome anymore.”

Lovino leaned over the curled-up form on the bed, facing away from him, and pressed the back of his fingers against the younger’s cheek – it was still hot. “But he will be bedridden for quite a while, won’t he?”

“His hips were dislocated, but I set them back in place. They should heal completely in about two-three months, he’s still young. In fact, in a couple of weeks I think he’ll be able to move around with crutches, of course without overexerting, but it will still be painful. And it’s also the knee, it is completely crushed… That will never heal, I’m afraid.”

The bishop said nothing, but his face darkened. Damn Bonnefoy and his stupid conspiracy tying his hands like that! Anger rose in his chest - nearly suffocating - at the thought that Beilschmidt’s man had escaped him too. It had been that one thing, on top of the correspondence – because he didn’t give a damn about the correspondence, really – which had thrown him off balance and had pushed him to give in to the fear of suspicion to such an extent as to deliver his little brother into the hands of that rabid dog. Because after all, the association with the German archbishop was the only thing the Chief Inquisitor could come up with against him, none of Lovino’s other sins qualified as indictable from the point of view of an Ecclesiastic Tribunal.

But why had the old bastard waited all these years? What for?

* * *

 

_Maybe the rats would finally come to get a bite out of him, the bread must have been gone by now. They surely would, there was just too much bare skin at their mercy. His eyes were closed, but he could hear shuffling nearby, movement. Like the rustle of fabric, like muffled steps, like hushed voices, but must have been an illusion – there were just the countless, tiny paws shuffling through the damp straws, quietly._

_He curled up tighter, cringing away from the disturbing sound. At least he wasn’t cold, or maybe he wasn’t feeling it anymore, because his body was still racked by shivers. And he couldn’t open his eyes. Or maybe… it was very dark now? Or he had gone blind?_

“He should wake up, too much sleep isn’t good. And he should eat something.”

_He didn’t recognize the voice. Was it the masked man? No, it was too soft… The old monk? It must have been him! But he didn’t want to wake up and be dragged back to-… A hand touched his shoulder, gentle but ghostly. More like the impression of a hand, he couldn’t feel the palm and fingers on his skin._

“ _Fratello,_ try to wake up,” _another voice whispered. Lovino. No, please… please don’t! He felt the tears rising, tickling his nostrils before gathering under closed eyelids. “_ Feli… come on. _” No, I can’t! I can’t anymore… I know what they’ll do if I wake up! A burning, acrid smell stung his nostrils. Vinegar._

Feliciano flinched violently, jerking away from the source of smell as he finally woke up. An arm draped around his torso, preventing him from trying to sit up and he grabbed on to it with both hands, dizzy. At first, his vision swam a bit and he didn’t know where he was, the place looked like his room back at home, but there was a fire! A fire and people he didn’t know, staring at him!

Pain rushed in, sweeping over his whole body like a wave of needles and he whimpered, biting hard on his already swollen bottom lip.

“ _Fratello_ , it’s alright,” his brother’s voice came again, soothing, with uncharacteristic softness. Fingers threading through his hair, ever-so-gently. “It’s over now, you’re safe. You’re home.”

The younger sibling finally turned his head, looking up at his brother, eyes still a little wide, mouthing a silent ‘what’. Lovino held a glass of wine at his lips and helped him take a sip. He saw his brother staring absently at the bandages on his wrists, then at the sleeves of his nightshirt, surprised.

“… _f-fra_ Carriedo said-” Feliciano breathed out, still gripping his brother’s arm. But he couldn’t remember… he couldn’t remember what the Spaniard had told him and the bishop’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly.

“It’s alright, Feli, it’s all over. He decided you’re innocent, you were released,” the other explained with a sigh. “That’s all that matters now, yes?”

 _Released_. Now he remembered something.

“L-Lovi… I-I told him,” the priest stuttered, feeling a sudden tinge of dread. But it was better to- “A-About _Nonno_ and the a-archbishop… that I…,” he paused, swallowing hard. “I’m s-sorry!” Aching, trembling, he sought his brother’s warmth, desperately hoping the other wouldn’t reject him.

“It doesn’t matter,” Lovino whispered, pulling him closer carefully, as to not move him too much.

“…t-told him about Claire…”

“Shhhhhhhh, it doesn’t matter. It’s all over now.” His brother was stroking his hair. He wasn’t mad. “Everything’s going to be fine, you’ll get well. But you slept for two days now, you need to eat something.”

The bishop shifted and arranged the pillows, so that Feliciano could be propped up a little higher, then ordered the manservant to bring some soup from the kitchen. He wondered if his sibling could use his hands – probably not. The doctor had done his best to set the broken fingers back, but they still didn’t look quite right.

Feliciano sighed, breathing through the pain and wiping his eyes awkwardly with the heels of his hands. Dizziness was letting off a bit, a headache settling in its place. It seemed he’d spent a really long time away from this room, from this world, and returning to it was so odd. The thread of life as he’d known it had been twisted, upheaval had entered through his door together with Gerhard Beilschmidt’s letter and-…

 _The book!_ The young priest flinched at the thought – the grimoire he’d meant to destroy before going to confront Lovino was still hidden under a stone at the foot of the hearth in his study! And now he couldn’t even move from the bed, he couldn’t get rid of it!

_“…in the hope it will provide you with the answers you’re seeking.”_

What answers?! He couldn’t understand at all what the German archbishop had wanted to say with that, or what he’d been trying to accomplish by sending the book. Unless… the rumors about him were true after all and he really was a heretic and devil worshipper and he’d hoped to lure Feliciano as well into using whatever devilry he was up to himself. More and more, this seemed to be the most probable explanation. And the most frightening.

But why on Earth had he thought that Feliciano would do such a thing?! And… why had _Nonno_ been close friends with this man?

_“Fratello, I don’t think you are so well acquainted with what Nonno did or didn’t do!”_

He watched his brother with tired eyes, feeling the familiar weight on his chest returning, replacing the previous rush of dread, the other’s clumsily holding of the bowl of soup, of taking the spoon to his mouth. Maybe he knew his family even less that he’d thought.

“W-Where is Sister Anna?”

Lovino went on with his motions, impassive. “She’s too old, Feli, I know you were doing most things around the house yourself lately. She couldn’t take care of you now by herself anyway, I brought in new servants. Besides, at her age she needs to be cared for herself, so I sent her back to the convent.” His voice still had that unusual, uncharacteristic softness which now felt poisonous.

The younger sibling said nothing in reply, he obediently swallowed his bitterness along with the soup Lovino was feeding him. Now that both the doctor and the manservant had walked out and there was only the two of them, the usual silence and dread routine was returning between them.

“The mysterious Ludwig Beilschmidt has vanished without a trace,” the bishop said suddenly, casually, his expression and tone unchanged, seemingly oblivious of his little brother’s flinch. “My men looked everywhere for him, but he was very fast. Must have left Rome at the same time you left the _palazzo_ d’Erze.”

Feliciano’s fingers twisted helplessly into the blanket, a throbbing ache shooting through them and causing him to swallow back a whimper. “Lovi… I didn’t lie to you. I never lied to you!” He stared his brother straight in the eye, but the other turned his head, busying himself with setting the now empty bowl on the nightstand and pouring another glass of wine.

“I know you didn’t.” The same foreboding calm in his voice.

“I didn’t know his name was Beilschmidt! He never told me, I barely saw him once!” the priest insisted. “He avoided me afterwards,” he went on, briefly licking his chapped lips, even if Lovino seemed uninterested. “I thought it was because I offended or scared him and that was why…”

“ _You_ scared him?”

“Well he did seem like… I mean he didn’t kiss my hand and he was somewhat cold and distant so I asked if…um… if he was a Protestant,” Feliciano explained, chewing on his bottom lip.

This time Lovino was clearly surprised, because his eyebrows nearly shot up into his hair line and he blinked a few times, utterly perplexed. “You asked _what_?!” It was hard to tell if he was amused or angry now. “What had gotten into you? It’s not like-…” He sighed. “And what did he say?”

“Something like… he was godless.”

The bishop snorted, rolling his eyes.

“But he did say he was a mercenary and that he was used to people being afraid of him. That was all and after that I didn’t see him again. The count said business kept him away but I thought… that he was avoiding me on purpose. Or he was afraid I’d-…” Feliciano was about to say ‘denounce’, but that word was better left out. “I don’t know…”

Lovino sighed, leaning in and pretending not to notice when his brother jerked away from his hand on reflex. “ _Fratello,_ I really don’t think you scared him away. Who knows what his business really was? But I do think he was a dangerous man, Protestant or not, so it’s for the best that he disappeared,” he stated gently, brushing a few damp strands from the younger’s forehead. “Don’t worry about it, you must rest now.”

He took the opium-laced wine glass and brought it to Feliciano’s lips. “Drink this, it will help you sleep and it won’t hurt anymore.”

**_To be continued_ **

A/N – Okay so this was somewhat of a filler, shorter, half-assed chap where not much happened and by now you must be wondering (and seriously questioning) what Ludwig’s great plan is, because he’s not doing anything remotely useful. Like, he literally sits on his ass, doing nothing. What the hell, right? Well, the next chap, what you have been waiting for (and what you haven’t been waiting for) will finally happen!

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

A/N– Hello everyone! Okay, so fingers crossed and let’s just hope this chapter doesn’t come out too creepy. Although… why not? Ah warned ye the last time ;)

* * *

 

_Rome – December 1544_

More than a month passed, Feliciano barely making any progress towards recovery. Against the doctor’s indications, he was still sleeping more than he should have, eating very little and mostly finding unfortunate solace in the opium-laced wine which swept him away from pain and present. But the opium was a double-edged sword, because it was soothing his body and tormenting his mind in the same time. Horrible nightmares plagued him almost every night, more often than not taking him back to the damp dungeons, to the executioner’s table and even to an imaginary stake.

Some other times he would find himself lying in _fra_ Carriedo’sarms and feeling the man’s fingers in his hair and on his face and somehow those were the worst.

Eventually he’d been able to sit up without much difficulty and pain, but until now he’d refused to try standing and walking with the crutches. Lovino scolded him for it repeatedly, but he couldn’t even look at them. Also, he wasn’t used to having servants around and their presence made him feel uncomfortable most of the time, especially since he’d needed to be cared for like a small child.

His brother hadn’t offered any explanations for the denunciation (not that Feliciano had imagined - for a single moment - that he would, let alone apologize for it. Lovino had never apologized for anything in his entire life) but his usual harshness had eased up somewhat. At least that was what the young priest had naively thought, before realizing that Lovino’s poorly managed aggressiveness had simply shifted focus.

He’d made the discovery one night as he’d woken up brusquely, screaming and kicking at the covers, still ghost-feeling firewood under his soles and convinced his feet were soaked in oil. Lovino was lying next to him in bed and had allowed the younger sibling to curl up in his arms, sobbing, desperate for some comfort, rubbing his back with soothing hands. And then he’d begun to whisper, the tension in his fingers sending shiversthrough Feliciano’s body, those words anything but soothing in turn.

How the Pope’s favorite cake and the wine he took before bed would be spiced with _cantarella_ and the old bastard would suffer atrocious pains before death finally took him.

How the Spanish bastard would be gutted with a butcher’s knife out in the street and be left to bleed out in some filthy ditch, like the rabid dog he was. Or maybe his body would be chopped into pieces and thrown into the Tiber, never to be found, the bishop seemed undecided about this.

Feliciano had shivered helplessly, tears running down his face, sobs muffled by the dread seeping into his very bones. Was this man really his brother?! It was. His brother and master. His flesh belonged to these hands and they could crush him with the same ease with which they caressed.

Thus, the thought that he needed to get rid of the grimoire without delay nestled itself in the younger Vargas’s mind anew and so one night he was finally determined to attempt it.

* * *

 

Feliciano stared at the dancing flames, seemingly pensive, but he was actually waiting for the servants to go to bed before he would try anything, ears keen on the sounds coming from downstairs. He’d even forced himself to eat dinner, in the hopes of gaining a bit more strength for this endeavor.

Finally, quiet fell over the small parish house and the young priest took a deep breath, sitting up, away from the pillows. He tossed the covers aside and carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed. As he did so, a sharp pang shot through the injured knee and he grit his teeth, swallowing the pain and forcing himself to breathe through it.  The crutches were out of his reach and he was unsure how to use them anyway. Resting his weight on the good leg and twisting against the mattress Feliciano finally stood, supporting himself on the nightstand. The ache in his hips wasn’t as bad as he’d feared, not even when he dared to take a first, shaky step. But more than anything he was dizzy from the opium and the long time spent in bed only and he moved to the window, opening it widely.

Icy winter air burst into the warm room, fine hoar frost dusting his nose and cheeks as the priest inhaled deeply, hoping to clear his head. It helped somewhat, but very soon he was chilled in the light nightshirt and had to shut out the fresh air once more in favor of the pleasantly heated bedroom.

He figured he could crawl along the wall to the small study, supporting himself on his hands only.

Fortunately, moonlight bathed the space, making everything visible enough for him not to grope blindly in search for a candle. There was one, half-melted in its brass holder in one corner of the desk and Feliciano lit it with trembling hands, hopping on one foot and burning the tip of his index finger in the process.

He eyed the hearth warily, knowing he couldn’t even try to kneel without dropping to the ground and possibly making enough noise as to alert the servants that there was someone wandering around the house. One palm pressed against the cold stones, he kicked the loose stone away with the injured leg and then stooped as low as his back and joints allowed, reaching to grab the book, his body protesting at the movement.

Eventually, after much effort, the grimoire was picked up and the young priest managed to lower himself into the desk chair sighing deeply. With a tired yawn he rubbed his eyes, proceeding to examine the thick leather covers. Would they burn completely? He planned to throw it in the constantly-burning fire in his bedroom hearth, but he had to make sure there’d be no traces left of it, nothing to arouse the slightest suspicion. 

The archbishop’s letter needed to be burned separately. Still, Feliciano found himself taking it out of the book and going over it anew, again trying to make sense of its hidden message, even if it was futile, absurd. All the sudden, he had a morbid curiosity in it, mixed with a hint of bitter mockery.

 _“I am sending you this book I have found most useful over the years-”_ Just how exactly was it useful?

He took the grimoire and opened it at the chapter where it had opened seemingly by itself the first time – _Daemones Nocturnum._ An ink drawing of the she-demon Lilith decorated the yellowed page, a beautiful face framed by luscious black curls, the shapely body of an Aphrodite scantily covered by a black, flowy cloth and adorned with a mighty pair of dark-feathered wings.

In the times of old, Lilith had been a pagan goddess.

Maybe that was Gerhardt Beilschmidt’s heresy, that he worshipped Lilith as a goddess? Was _that_ supposed to be useful?

He turned a few pages with the descriptions he’d been through before. Lilith’s story was one of endless, wicked seduction but above all it was a story of disobedience. A wife disobedient towards her husband. Was that the message? That he should disobey? And if so, who? Lovino? The Church? Lilith had disobeyed God by disobeying her fellow human.

_A bit unfair, don’t you think?_

The book had to be burned, it was giving him strange ideas. Still, he went on turning the pages, until something altogether striking presented itself to his eyes, something he had entirely missed until now. After lengthily describing Lilith and her children the incubi and succubae in all their nefariousness, an entire page at the end of the chapter was dedicated to a prayer of sorts, or maybe a summoning spell.

_“Lilith **,** please receive this offering of my soul. _

_I give this truthfully and willingly._

_Teach me to be unafraid,_  
To feel power singing in my veins.  
  


_Help me to face and balance  
The shadows in my nature…_

_May the light of this candle burn brightly_

_And guide your daughter/son to me._

_Protect me from the shadows_  
And the darkness that would harm me,  
And help me understand  
The shadows that will not.”

Maybe it was a protection spell?

Scowling, Feliciano went back to the beginning of the grimoire and took all chapters in order, for all types of demons described, leafing through and checking at the end of each one. Sure enough, there were no other prayers or summoning spells anywhere else and like this its inclusion made even less sense. The grimoire described the many sorts of demonic beings detailing their maleficent attributes and warned upon their trickery and the chapter on Lilith was no exception, yet the prayer was in stark contrast with all that, suggesting something entirely different.

And then he realized it – the compendium of demonology in itself was merely informative (even if the Inquisition would have clearly considered dangerous ill-intent behind possession of such material), but _this_ was the heresy, carefully, subtly concealed in a book otherwise not against the dogmas in any way.

“Useless…”

Feliciano smiled, then burst into a hysterical laughter he muffled with both hands before it ended in tears.

Maybe Gerhardt Beilschmidt believed in Lilith’s protection, maybe Nonno had believed in this sort of stuff too, but he for one didn’t _need_ to summon any incubus. His brother may not have been one – because he didn’t trick, he didn’t seduce – but he’d spilled Feliciano’s blood for his own sick pleasure regardless and he’d already damned Feliciano’s soul by taking him to bed. What more could Lilith do now?

He went back to the prayer and read it aloud, tears still running down his face at the cruel irony of it all. When he was done, he snapped the grimoire shut and buried his face in his hands.

When the young priest lifted his head again, the room had gone dark brusquely, the candle mysteriously snuffed out. He flinched and threw an alarmed look around the room, at first seeing nothing. Then, the air stirred and light footsteps resounded on the bare wooden floors, coming closer.

“W-Who’s there?” Feliciano whispered, shooting from his seat as fast as his damaged body was capable of, nearly knocking off his chair in the process and sticking his back against the wall.

“My bad, forgive me.”

The candle flickered back to life and suddenly _signor_ Ludwig Beilschmidt was standing on the other side of the desk, donning the same pristine black velvet clothes and unreadable expression as usual. Actually no, there was a light smile on his face now, as if he were pleased with something.

Feliciano gasped, eyes widening in horror. “ _S-Signor_ Ludwig! What are you doing here? H-How did you get in?”

The demon tilted his head to the side, his smile not faltering. “Feliciano, stop pretending that you don’t understand. Now you can tell for sure, but then… you always _knew_ , didn’t you? Ever since you first laid eyes on me, you could tell _what_ I was, you are one of those very few who can.”

“H-He sent you… I know he sent you,” the priest murmured, moving to support himself against the desk. His lower back had begun to hurt. “B-But I don’t understand-”

Ludwig sighed, stepping graciously around the desk to stand in front of the Italian, then reached out to grasp the cross pendant hanging around his neck. As he did so, his blue eyes suddenly took a golden, glowing hue and a foul smell of burned flesh invaded Feliciano’s nostrils as the cross burned into the other’s hand.

“You summoned me!” the demon informed him, baring gleaming sharp teeth. “What is it that you don’t understand, _exactly_?”

Terror gripped Feliciano’s throat like a claw, forbidding breath and mollifying his bones. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it was a hallucination, but the horrible vision was still there when he opened them again. He shook his head slowly, fingers of one hand gripping the silver cross the other had released, the metal still hot.

“Pater n-noster qui es in coelis, s-sanctificetur nomen tuum…” he murmured, staring into those inhuman orbs, the other hand finding purchase in the front of Ludwig’s jacket, unaware that the demon’s arms were what held him from collapsing to the ground. “…adveniat r-regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua-…”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the blond sighed, just as the priest’s eyelids fell shut and he slipped into unconsciousness. “But you’re such a mess,” he added, more to himself as he lifted the Italian in his arms and carried him back to the warm, fire-lit bedroom.

For some reason, this always happened. People went and summoned incubi, but then when they got their wish they were so horrified that they started to pray and wave crosses around and beg for the divine protection they’d just forfeited. What the heavens were they thinking?! Ludwig sighed again, carefully lowering Feliciano onto the bed and tucking him in. Then he leaned in and placed a soft, chaste kiss on the forehead of his precious prey-to-be, who had finally been tainted a second time.

* * *

 

The next day the manservant barely managed to wake Feliciano up very late, past noon. Still, he had slept surprisingly well, unbothered by nightmares for the first time in very long. He ate with somewhat more appetite than usual and then again managed to get out of bed to look out the window.

“I’d like to go outside for a bit,” he told the man. “Can you please help me dress?”

“Father, it’s very cold outside, you might catch a-”

“Only for a little bit,” Feliciano asked with a small, sad smile. “I’ve been in this room for so long…”

When the manservant went away to fetch his clothing, the young priest took the opportunity to throw a glance into the study through the open door. But there were no signs of what had happened the night before, the stone at the base of the hearth stuck in its place and there was nothing on his desk, no sign of the grimoire. He must have dreamed the whole thing, unless the servants (who were Lovino’s) had been there while he’d been asleep and had taken it. That was a dismal perspective, but it was an unlikely one.

When he was properly clad and wrapped in a thick winter cloak he was given a cane and the servant helped him down the stairs and out into the small backyard. The ground was frozen and the layer of dead leaves upon it covered in hoar frost, still Feliciano went and sat down on a small wooden bench between the now barren flowerbeds.

He sat there for a while, back hunched and hood pulled down over his eyes, crippled fingers resting clasped in his lap. It was really cold, each breath of crisp air burning his nostrils and blowing soft clouds of steam, but still, it was good to be out again. It was good to be alive.

At some point he heard the iron street gate creaking open, then the leaf-covered gravel of the small path crunching under someone’s footsteps. He didn’t turn to see, even if it could have only been one person and he was probably in for a scolding now.

The newcomer walked up to the bench with slow, unhurried steps, and waited for the priest to lift his head and acknowledge their presence. It was _signor_ Ludwig.

Feliciano flinched violently, staring up at the blond in shock for a moment, then throwing a frantic look around. “ _S-Signor_ Ludwig, you can’t be here!” he cried, shaking his head quickly. “My brother’s men are looking for you and-”

“No one can see me if I don’t want to be seen,” the demon said gently, kneeling and taking the Italian’s small hand in his leather-gloved one. He pressed a slow kiss to the knuckles. “And from now on I will be here to protect you and do your every bidding, you have nothing to fear anymore. I also took the grimoire last night, so no one will find it now.”

The younger Vargas took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Is that what he wanted, what Gerhardt Beilschmidt wanted? For me to summon you?”

“Indeed, since you asked for his help. He ordered me to protect you, but his only request was that you summon me out of your own free will. Surely you understand why.”

He understood. The price for this would be his already damned soul.

“But that’s not all, is it?” Feliciano whispered, the archbishop’s intentions finally taking shape in his mind clearly. “He doesn’t only want you to protect me. He also hopes that I will send you to hurt my brother, so that he will finally get his revenge without it being on his hands.”

 “Well, master did not quite put it so, but perhaps your intuition is not mistaken,” the demon replied, standing.

The priest clenched his fists, a pained grimace tightening his lips. “I won’t do it! Do what you want with me, but Lovino is still my brother, I would never do anything to hurt him! Your master will be disappointed.”

 _Signor_ Ludwig smiled, as if he’d expected this answer. “If he has relinquished the decision, then he has also relinquished the result.” This was probably a lie. “We will speak more about this, we have plenty of time. I must leave you now, but I will come tonight.”

The Italian flinched. “Wha-…. Y-You can’t, my brother might-”

“ _Sua Eccellenza_ is otherwise occupied, I have seen to that,” the demon reassured him with a smirk. “He has found a new, more exciting toy to spend his nights with.”

Feliciano could only snort bitterly at that. He’d replaced one incubus with another.

**_To be continued_ **

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**

**A/N – I take no credit for the summoning prayer, it is heavily inspired from some websites where apparently you can find actual instructions on how to summon an incubus/succubus. I’m serious, just google ‘incubus summoning’. However, they have a disclaimer that they** **take no responsibility for any negative result of this ritual, so #donttrythisathome and actually #donttrythisatall. Feli didn’t read the disclaimer and look what happened.**


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER 9**

A/N– Hello my dear readers! Okay so as I have mentioned in my other recent updates, this summer has been a bit tough and I have been somewhat thrown off track with everything going on. But I’m still writing, if only to keep my mind off other things.

* * *

 

The fire had dwindled somewhat in the hearth, deepening the shadows of the small bedroom. Feliciano shifted and turned on the pillow, his arm knocking over the empty wine cup which had fallen from his limp hand next to his body a few hours before, causing it to drop over the edge of the mattress and roll onto the floor with a startling clatter. The ensuing noise woke the young priest abruptly, with a flinch which didn’t quite reach his limbs, a shaky hand reaching to brush away damp hair from his forehead. He’d had yet another opium-induced nightmare (still, he couldn’t stop indulging in it, again and again), but no memory of it lingered this time, just a bone-chilling dread making him sit up and throw a frantic glance around the room a few moments later.

There was no one, no sign his brother or of _signor_ Ludwig Beilschmidt.

The younger Vargas leaned back on the pillows, eyes trained on the closed door and the dancing shapes cast by the fire on the cracked, unpolished wood. He remained like this for a long while, his breath steadying as he gradually relaxed, even though he was waiting. Still, oddly enough there was no tension in it, but a sad sort of reassurance. There was reassurance in resignation; there was reassurance even in defeat. It was the end of all struggles.

Eventually, something happened. At first it was no more than a flicker caught by the corner of his eye, a dot of darkness growing within darkness into the corner between the hearth and the wall with the window, a shadow absorbing all light as it gradually took shape, from small to larger and larger, until it became the distinctive form of a man crouched down on the floor.

Feliciano breathed out, craning his neck to see past the edge of his bed. “ _Signor_ Ludwig? Is that you?” he whispered.

The shape stirred, unfolding, and then jumped up onto the bed in one smooth, feline-like leap.  The blond demon took the Italian in curiously with golden-glowing orbs as he flexed his now bare torso, a large pair of black wings fluttering slowly behind his broad shoulders, the velvety black of feathers contrasting with his alabaster skin.His half-nudity, while entirely unexpected, also looked surprisingly natural and dignified, as if he’d never been meant to wear clothes in the first place.

“Why do you still call me ‘signor Ludwig’?” the incubus inquired, mirth playing on his lips as he leaned over the young priest. Even now, as Feliciano was finally in his inescapable grasp, there was no hint of malice in the other’s tone, he was still endlessly gentle, if genuinely curious about his prey. “You do realize that it’s not my real name, don’t you?”

The Italian didn’t answer, continuing to stare at the horrible, frightening, magnificent apparition and eventually sitting up wide-eyed and reaching out to touch and sink his fingertips into the tar-colored plumage of Ludwig’s wings. An awed gasp left the pale, parted lips as he observed, explored, eyes beginning to glisten with the tears of overwhelming, unfamiliar emotion. Such accursed beauty couldn’t have possibly been meant for his eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” Ludwig murmured, wiping the wet cheekbones with the backs of his fingers. “You will suffer no pain at my hands, I promise you.” He took the priest’s hands in his and glanced down at the fragile, damaged fingers and shook his head. “Your body is mine now, and I won’t accept any imperfections. I will see everything fixed right away.”

Feliciano flinched and pulled back instinctively, trying to pry his hands away from the demon’s, but the incubus held his grip, gentle but firm, squeezing lightly. An unexpected, almost burning heat seeped from his hands into the other’s bones and joints, setting them back into place painlessly.

“Now, what else?” Ludwig asked, a tad impatiently, as the Italian proceeded to hold up his hands and stare at his own fingers, too fearful to move them just yet. “Ah. Your leg.” He quickly peeled off the blanket, exposing the injured knee and repeating the same treatment. It took a bit longer this time, but again it was completely painless, even if a light snap of the restored joints made Feliciano flinch.

“What else?”

The priest bit his lip, trying to fight the discomfort of having the other’s hands on his skin in such intimate fashion. He wasn’t used to being touched. He may have been able to endure the executioner’s brutal touch which had gotten him numb with dread, or Lovino’s sensual touches, numbing by horrible habit, but _signor_ Ludwig’s touch was something entirely different. It held neither brutality nor wicked possessiveness, not even the sinful sort of passion he’d imagined the incubi to be prone to, instead it felt surprisingly neutral and harmless and as such his body _would not_ close off to it, his senses awake and almost… keen.   

“My hips,” he confessed, shyly but still not wanting to test the demon’s patience. “No, don’t!”

“What did I just tell you? Your body is mine now,” Ludwig pointed softly, prying away the hands which tried to stop him from lifting Feliciano’s nightshirt. Still, he resorted to slipping his own hands under it as modestly as possible, warm, large palms almost teasingly trailing up the Italian’s bare thighs upwards, all the way to the hipbones.

“See, all good now,” the blond stated, once he was done. “But of course, you will have to pretend that nothing has changed and you’re still crippled. If someone were to find out about this, things would become complicated. Any other injuries?”

“N-No, that was all-”

“Your back,” the incubus remembered. “It’s scarred, isn’t it? From _penitenza_?”

Feliciano closed his eyes briefly, nearly mustering a bitter smile. Then he sat up fully and turned, again surprised that the crushed knee didn’t protest at being bent, and loosened the front laces of his thin, large nightshirt until it slid off his shoulders and dropped down to his waist. Behind him the blond demon was motionless, staring, and it wasn’t hard to guess _what_ had piqued his interest all the sudden.

“Can you still see it? The _poem_?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it?” Feliciano murmured bitterly, taken by a brief, morbid curiosity. Maybe an incubus would… no, better said _only_ an incubus could have appreciated Lovino’s knifework.

“It’s a mockery,” Ludwig replied, this time the slightest hint of indignation seeping into his voice.

Still, he didn’t ask anything, or say more about it. He had surely guessed it alreadyand the priest found himself ashamed of it, even in front of _a demon_ , of his brother foulness and last but not least of himself being nothing more than his brother’s _toy,_ as _signor_ Ludwig had put it. And not even a very interesting one at that… Tears pricked the corner of his eyes anew and he swallowed back a sob.

“Tell me.” Without warning, he was pulled slightly and his back pressed against the demon’s torso as the other’s arms went around his waist. “I want you to tell me everything,” Ludwig asked.

“Tell you what?” Was there anything the incubus was not aware of, anything he hadn’t figured already?

“Everything you’ve wanted to tell someone but you couldn’t. Everything you’ve wanted to say out loud.”

Feliciano sniffed, shaking his head. “…I can’t.” He knew that if he were to try, he’d just open his mouth and nothing would come out, words simply refusing to form in his throat.

“You can, you are safe now. And I want you to be free.”

 _To be free is to disobey._ And disobey he did, in the end, for lack of anything left to lose. _Signor_ Ludwig’s arms around his fragile body felt reassuring in that sinister sense that whatever the incubus had gripped in his claws could not be touched by anyone else.

 “The truth is, despite everything I still-… I still love my brother. Not in the way he says – or shows – that he loves me, but in my heart…”

After that one confession, that one admittance, clarity came. It wasn’t wrong to speak of it, he wasn’t spiteful, he wasn’t even judging. He started from the beginning and the words gradually came, poured out, flew away. Tears too and with each one he was running out, going dry, emptying of bitterness.

“Lie down.”

The incubus’s hands rested on the Italian’s shoulders, guiding him to shift and stretch on his front on the mattress. After that, his fingertips carefully traced every line of the intricate, endless web of whip scars on Feliciano’s back and every accursed letter Lovino Vargas had carved into his brother’s skin, until they were all gone. “I must ask, what pleases you?” he inquired while working.

“What pleases me?”

“When you are in bed with someone, I mean.”

The younger Vargas couldn’t help thinking that this was even more of a mockery than Lovino’s ‘love’ poem. Not on _signor_ Ludwig’s part though, because it wasn’t unreasonable in any way. Feliciano knew, on a theoretical level, that other people enjoyed themselves in such circumstances. Other priests even. His brother. But not him – he had only been a mere instrument for another’s pleasure at the price of his own torment, of the body and of the soul. Once, when they were much younger and Lovino’s sin was of a more hesitant and experimental nature, he’d tried to offer his sibling some enjoyment in turn, but Feliciano had been so utterly mortified and disgusted by what was happening – at the hands of his kin no less – that even _that_ had turned painful.

“I don’t know how to answer that question,” the young priest confessed, face half-buried in the pillow.

Ludwig’s hand ghosted over his shoulder, prompting the Italian to roll around and face him. For a while he simply, quietly watched the reddish light from the hearth trembling over Feliciano’s almost naked body. The unfamiliar was frightening – even passion and pleasure - and he did not mean to frighten the young man any more than he already was. Not if he wanted to achieve his purpose. Also, this was a discovery he was making with delight – to be debauched was to be controlled by other’s petty urges and it was clear that Feliciano did not have it in his making to be so, that he would never become debauched, not even after he was going to become accustomed to pleasure. Just as he’d anticipated, the younger Vargas was just perfect.

“You are so precious, so pure… That’s why your fall will be the hardest and the most beautiful thing my eyes have feasted upon,” the blond murmured, more to himself, lips twitching into an almost imperceptible smile as he finally leaned down and brushed his thumb over Feliciano’s bottom lip. His eyes, regaining their cerulean shade, bore into the Italian’s large, chocolaty ones and explored his every feature before resting on the full lips.

No, it was too soon for that.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Instead his mouth found the other’s neck, that soft spot just below the earlobe, pressing a hot kiss to it. The priest’s eyelids fell shut and he took a deep, shaky breath, guessing the incubus’s smile against his skin. Warm, soothing hands caressed his torso ever-so-gently and Ludwig’s lips slowly traveled down on his exposed throat, to the collarbone, over the smooth expanse of his chest and stomach. By the accursed gift of demonic fingers his muscles relaxed, his body opened, his whole being lulled into a much-welcomed sense of security. Whatever discomfort he’d felt in the beginning was quick to dissipate, replaced by a thrilling, peculiar sort of anticipation.

Ludwig listened intently to the hurried, shortened breaths of his lover before lowering his head determinedly between Feliciano’s slender thighs, earning a loud gasp. His hands rubbed the Italian’s hips and knees soothingly as the gasps turned into soft moans, until the small body finally arched off the mattress and the sweetest sound graced his ears.

After that, the demon pushed himself back up and stretched smoothly next to Feliciano, brushing some damp strands away from his forehead and tapping the tip of his small nose with his index finger, before pulling the blanket over both their bodies.

“W-What was that…?” the young priest asked, eyes half-lidded and chest heaving lightly.

“Your innocence,” Ludwig replied amused, pressing two fingers against his lips and symbolically kissing it goodbye. He then wrapped his arms around the Italian, briefly pecking his forehead.

**_To be continued_ **

Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)

So, there it was, another exceptionally short chap (although I think this is the shortest of them all so far, I surpassed myself!) But it’s not just because I’m a lazy ass, although that played a part in it too, but also plot-wise I’m trying to structure things in a certain way and I couldn’t just delve into another arc – if that’s the right way to put it – within this chapter. Crap…

ALSO, a BIG shout-out to my fellow author Letsnottalkaboutitaye for all of her amazing support and inspiration!! Guys, go check her stories, she’s not only an excellent Italy bros writer but also NOT a total lazy ass like me who updates once a century.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

A/N– Hello everyone! Guess what, I’m finally back with a new chapter, since real life has finally consented to ease its grip on me a little bit and allow some time off from all the ruckus and ‘excitement’… Therefore, enjoy and give me your thoughts!

 ** _Warning:_** _major character death_

* * *

 

Something peculiar was happening, beyond all doubt. As per what the grimoire was saying about nocturnal demons, anyone engaging in a relationship with an incubus or succubus invariably and rather sooner than later was doomed to suffer the rapid deterioration of their health and eventually death. But Feliciano’s health had actually improved, not only by the demon’s healing but also his tonus was better than ever, he ate with appetite at all meals and color had fully come back to his cheeks. So much so that he’d been almost suspiciously quick to resume his duties, even if he still pretended to walk around with the cane.

As for his relationship with _signor_ Ludwig, he’d unconsciously developed the convenient ability of letting it slip from his mind during daytime or at night when he was alone in his bed.  Because the incubus was not visiting him every night, but when he did, it was far more of a blessing than a curse.

Against all reason he felt almost happily comforted with _signor_ Ludwig - when they kissed passionately, when he was giving him his body, and when the blond would wrap his arms and those magnificent black wings around him gently, cuddling until the Italian was finally falling asleep. Against all reason, the young priest knew instinctively that this felt a lot like what _love_ should have been. It wasn’t true, obviously, but _signor_ Ludwig seemed determined not to cause him pain, not even with sweetly-crafted lies. He never spoke any loving words, he showed no need to be deceitful and it was surprisingly reassuring.

Thus, he wasn’t questioning any of it, calmly resigned to the thought that his soul was lost.

Giving himself to the demon and confessing his sorrows to the Devil’s servant had brought some unexpected clarity into his mistakes as well. Even as he was describing the ordeal he’d endured at Lovino’s hands since early adolescence it had dawned on him that he’d _allowed_ it to happen. He’d not told _Nonno_ anything about it, he’d not asked for help, not once! And he’d not let it happen in pursuit of the sinful pleasure which he was entirely ignorant of but because he’d desperately craved his brother’s love, his approval, _his acceptance_. Obviously, Lovino had never given it, none of these things, and soon enough it hadn’t mattered anymore, he’d gotten too broken inside to care. 

Outside of his now relatively peaceful little world a cold, harsh winter had fallen over Rome and, even if Christmas came and went, the Inquisition’s merciless eyes never slept. It was the reason why Feliciano had become wary of leaving the safety of his parish, his only trips being between the church and his home. Lovino’s men were still keeping an eye on him discreetly and the new servants had remained in his household, but they were not giving him any reasons for concern and no one else seemed to be lurking around.

Still, as the young priest was very soon to find out, trouble was never far away.

One day around noon as he returned home from the mass Feliciano went up to his study to read, only to find _signor_ Ludwig waiting for him. The thing in itself was ominous, since the incubus had not shown himself in daylight again after pledging his ‘allegiance’ to the Italian.

Feliciano gasped almost audibly upon noticing the blond standing in front of the window, with his back to the room. What could be happening now? This visit surely had a purpose!

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Ludwig said turning at last, as the other hastily looked over his shoulder, out of habit fearing someone might hear them or that the incubus had been seen. He kept forgetting that _signor_ Ludwig had the ability to be unseen to anyone but those expressly meant to see him.

“W-Why are you here?” Feliciano asked quietly, licking suddenly dry lips.

“Do I need a reason to see you?”

There was a light smile on the demon’s face as he sauntered closer with slow, predatory steps.  His large, warm hand cupped the Italian’s cold-reddened cheek as he leaned in, pressing their lips together in a hot kiss. The brunet moaned softly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he instinctively relaxed into the touch, his rough cloth cloak being unclasped and dropping to the ground. But then _signor_ Ludwig pulled away, instead resting his hands onto Feliciano’s shoulders and looking him in the eye with a grave air.

“Unfortunately, there are some things even _I_ can’t protect you from,” the demon said gently. “I came to warn you now - prepare yourself.”

The priest’s eyes widened in dread and his heart skipped a beat. “What… sort of things?!”

“Maybe… consequences?”

“Of what?! What am I accused of this time?!” the younger Vargas cried. “I haven’t done anything!”

Ludwig shrugged, sighing. “Exactly…”

Before Feliciano could ask anything, the manservant came in to announce that some people had arrived, waiting to speak with him. The man didn’t look alarmed though, but maybe it was only because he already knew what was going on. The priest felt his body grow heavy and numb with dread. Without a word, he followed the servant back downstairs, where he was met with the sight of an older woman, accompanied by a teenage girl and a small boy. Their clothes looked like they had been good once, expensive even, but were now ragged and dirty. Feliciano didn’t remember ever seeing them before, they didn’t seem to be from his parish.

Feliciano took a long look at them as the servant whispered their family name, one he also didn’t recognize. The woman’s face looked cold and spiteful, the children appeared frightened and ashamed.

“What can I do for you?” he asked regardless, a tad intimidated by the woman’s glare.

She snorted, lifting her chin. “Well, don’t you have some nerve to ask that, _father_!” she spat. “As if you didn’t know what this is about!”

“Mother-” the girl tried to intervene.

“Be quiet, Bianca! My poor husband took his own life and damned himself before God! These wretched children and myself are out in the street in the middle of the winter! All because we couldn’t pay back the money we lent from your brother the bishop on time! With one hell of an interest too! What, will you tell me you knew nothing about this? That you had nothing to do with this?! Look me in the eye and tell me!”

Feliciano stared, lips slightly parted and suddenly unable to draw breath. Because Lovino’s visits had become so rare, he usually left quickly and hadn’t touched him anymore, he’d very nearly forgotten what his brother was really like. Because he had no doubt about the bishop’s guilt and that the woman was telling the truth, he’d done this sort of things before and so there was no reason to suspect the incubus or anyone else having a hand in this. Still, people hadn’t showed up at his doorstep before – they’d only written letters and those had been somewhat easier to deal with, even if the pain and the shame were there regardless. Having to look them in the eye was much worse and the unfairness of the situation suddenly made him angry. Why wasn’t _Lovino_ the one to face it?! Just because he had guards at _his_ door?!

His lips remained sealed and his head bowed, tears of bitterness and humiliation pricking the corners of his eyes. He wouldn’t even think to give an apology, or to ask for any details about what had happened, what good would it have done to this headless family? Even if silence was equally incriminating.

“Look at you! That innocent, angelic face is not fooling anyone; I know you’re no different from your older brother!”

_I haven’t done anything… No, I have done nothing. Always… done nothing. I let everything happen. I let Lovino take me, I let him rob and destroy, whatever it was I just let it happen. I’ve never even tried to-… Sin is not only in doing, it is also in not doing and such is my sin. I am weak. I’ve always been weak and… there’s no virtue in weakness._

“Father, please, can you help us?” the girl piped up again after her mother was done spilling her venom. “We have nowhere to go.”

* * *

 

Unlike Anri and other incubi and succubae who were easily bored and could hardly be harnessed to a task, the one named Ludwig in the world of men was infinitely patient. He wasn’t oblivious to momentum when there was need for it, but being aware that rushing things often ruined them rather than helped, he waited. As far as his purpose was concerned, the young priest was definitely making some progress - the more subtle and unnoticeable even to himself the better – he _was_ changing, he was _freeing_ himself gradually so there was no need to put pressure.

And fate had just rewarded Ludwig’s patience, even though this had been hardly unpredictable – after all rotten people very rarely started to walk the path of righteousness overnight.  As planned, Lovino Vargas would eventually end up pushing his younger brother over the edge one way or another and that moment wasn’t very far away now.

He saw it on Feliciano’s face as the young priest left the house of his confessor – a much older priest who ran a shelter for widows and orphans and where the Italian had eventually taken his unexpected visitors. His eyes and nose were red from crying and dark circles of sheer fatigue which hadn’t been there earlier suddenly sticking out against the paleness of the rest of his face, making him look even more childish and vulnerable than usual. Sheer pain and bitterness were written all over his tearstained features, but those tears were going to run dry eventually and he was going to become less tender.  

Where light was fading, the shadows would creep in.

Ludwig met him out in the street and, taking advantage of his demonic gifts, reached out to caress the Italian’s hair unseen by the other mortals going about their business around them.

“I told my confessor everything,” Feliciano stated, somewhat coldly and not looking him in the eye. “I told him I took a lover.”

The blond smiled lightly. “That’s hardly _everything_ ,” he observed, falling into step with the other’s determined stride. The priest had even forgotten to lean on the cane now weighed impatiently in his hand. “What did he say?”

Feliciano pressed his lips in a bitter grimace, a light scowl still lingering on his brow. “What do you think he said? He gave me penitence,” he said quietly.

“He didn’t tell you to stop?”

The priest halted his steps and turned abruptly. “You blaspheme!” he snapped, fists helplessly clenched at his sides. Still, he was more chagrined than angry.

“On the contrary,” Ludwig said amused. “I am as true to my nature as it gets. But I did not mean to upset you.”

“You have no idea how ashamed I was when I had to tell him what I have-”

“I am sure, but not quite as ashamed as you felt when you had to explain to him why that once decent, well-to-do family is now in this predicament and had to be sheltered under his roof. Am I right?” the demon said smoothly.

The priest closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, the wave of irritation from earlier returning. “Well that’s always been very easy for everyone to do, blame _me_ for everything my brother did! To throw whatever reproach in _my_ face, because I took it while he didn’t! He’s always been strong and determined and… now he’s a bishop! He’s rich, he’s influential, what sway could _I_ possibly hold on him?!”

“You’re his brother,” _signor_ Ludwig pointed calmly. “And people not unjustifiably expect relatives to collaborate on some level. Rather than imagine what your relationship is really like, they tend to believe that your perceived poverty and virtue is just a cleverly-crafted façade meant to benefit his own image and that there’s no truth in it. They can’t be blamed really and to some extent that might have indeed been your brother’s intention. After all, he could have bought you a better house and had you appointed to a larger parish, even if he didn’t think much of you, because I believe he is quite comfortable in the knowledge that you’d remain humble and obedient regardless of the circumstances.”

Well, such was his curse. Feliciano wasn’t ambitious and he’d never wanted a better house or a larger parish, he was content with very little and even more so at the thought of keeping himself away from his brother’s business and pursuits. But in the end no amount of shrinking had saved him from Lovino’s shadow and no humility, dedicated service or good deeds had delivered him from sharing his sibling’s bad reputation.

“So what am I supposed to do then? What does everyone expect of me?!” The last few hours had worn him out and his eyes stung, unable to shed any more tears. “What does _your master_ want?!” His voice dwindled to a near-whisper. “The only thing-… ” He shook his head. “That I won’t do. I won’t… hurt my brother. I can’t, I-”

 _Signor_ Ludwig took a step closer and clasped Feliciano’s cold hands in his large, warm ones. “Feli, listen to me,” he said gently. “It is true that my master’s intent in responding to your plea for help wasn’t entirely pure, for if it had been I would have just had you spirited away from Rome, never to be found again by your brother. Moreover, he wanted you to make the decision. That’s why I am in your hands just as you are in mine now and what you ask shall be done. But it is more complicated than that – he _is_ grieving.”

“I realize that, but-”

“Claire has gone mad. You don’t know the dark depths of madness, its murky waters out of which a sunken one can never again swim back to the surface. My master only wants the just thing to be done, for the sake of the child who grows up orphaned under his roof.”

“And what is the just thing to be done?”

“To have him judged.”

Feliciano snorted, an expression of utter disbelief widening his eyes. “ _Judged_?” He pulled away from the incubus, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “By whom? This is _Rome_! Do you suppose anyone cares about how corrupt or sinful my brother is?! His superiors? The _Pope_?” He shook his head, waving his hand in dismissal.

Ludwig held back a satisfied smile – yes, his prey was definitely changing. Never before would have he uttered such rebellious words…

“The Inquisition.”

The Italian flinched visibly, previous indignation instantly drowned by dread as memories of the tortures and of _fra_ Carriedo’s interrogation flooded his mind. It all came back like a tidal wave, churning his stomach and constricting his chest, making it impossible to breathe. And then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

 

_Rome – January 1545_

After he’d fainted that day, Feliciano’s health had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Very soon he’d been unable to get out of bed and could only take in a few mouthfuls of water and a morsel for every meal. The doctor had diagnosed a viral indigestion or similar gut problems, but he knew what this was. Everything else until now had been an illusion, his punishment was near.

“It’s just as the book says – anyone who receives a child of Lilith into their bed will fall ill and die.”

“Well, that is so,” _signor_ Ludwig confirmed, shifting slightly on the edge of the bed. “Because we feed on them and blood loss eventually leads to illness and death. But I haven’t fed on you to such a grave extent. You fell ill because you are tired but your fatigue is of the mind, not of the body. That’s why I cannot cure it.”

Feliciano sighed, eyes closing as he sunk further into the pillows. Why was the demon lying to him now of all times? What was the point? “I can’t write a denunciation against my brother,” he said quietly. “What could I write in it anyway? None of the things he’s done qualify as heresy or… witchcraft… At best it would look like the vengeful ramblings of a dying man. Like I’d purposely seek to hurt my own kin or spilling my own filth from the edge of the grave. Who’s to say it wasn’t me who corrupted him into sodomy in the first place?”

The blond leaned in and stroked the young priest’s wax-pale check with the tips of his fingers. “You’d be surprised at how interpretable things can turn out to be. And you don’t have to write it, just sign it.”

The younger Vargas shook his head, wanting to curl away from the two sheets of paper which met his exhausted gaze as he opened his eyes again, but his weak body wouldn’t obey him.

“I know you want this to end, you’ve been wanting it for a while now. Sign and it will all end, I promise you. It will end, for you and for the others.” He watched numbly as the incubus’ long fingers placed a quill between his own and closed ever-so-gently around his hand. “Feli, don’t die being his slave.”

“I’m afraid…” Feliciano murmured, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go to Hell…” Yet, as soon as the quill left the paper a freezing numbness started from the tips of his fingers, spreading along his arms and into his veins and, just a moment later, the final breath left his lips.

Ludwig smiled happily, leaning to press a soft kiss to his prey’s forehead. The third tainting had been fulfilled.

**_To be continued_ **

Now I’ve done it, I killed poor Feli. You didn’t see that one coming, did you? Still, have faith in the twistedness of my plot, because this story is far from finished (and before you go through the roof – you know who – remember this: Ludwig is a demon. As in, a _bad guy_.)

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

A/N– Hello my dear readers! Currently I am having some time off work and, aside from doing my best to clear my head after a very weird and agitated summer, I’ll be trying to catch up on my fics. So I’m making an effort to get things done around here, as much as possible and write as many chaps as I can before the break is over. That being said, enjoy today’s update! (btw, this chap is a bit on the horror side again, sorry-not-sorry)

* * *

 

It was getting dark, the light fading quickly in the early winter evening and the biting wind had chased most people off the streets. _Fra_ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo quickened his step, pulling the large hood of his black robe lower, almost down to his mouth. He walked alone, a simple, unknown monk trotting with worn boots down the cobblestoned streets of Rome, humble in thought and appearance, having refused the armed escort the Pope had suggested to accompany him from the monastery he had been offered shelter to the headquarters of the Ecclesiastic Tribunal and back, as well as other places where his current job required his presence. The Spaniard feared no darkness, for the Lord was with him with a ready sword, and if the Lord decided to summon him from this earth before his great work was done, then that be the Lord’s will and he would not question it.

He sought not rest but endless toil, thirsted not for pleasures but for justice, gladly hoped not for protection but for martyrdom.  And he was no fool, as he saw the Lord’s work in everything he also saw the Devil’s and was well aware that for all of its so-called holiness Rome was a foul, sin-infested city in which the Pope fought a hard war surrounded by only few loyalists, and which could only be cleansed by the sacred fire the Holy Father had put in his hands.

The wind sharpened and grew in strength, a powerful gust of wind blowing the hood back from his face. The monk stopped, brusquely realizing that his usually steady, accustomed steps had taken him astray from his usual path and into an unfamiliar place. It looked like a dead end, the high, blackened stone walls of some decrepit, windowless buildings rising ahead and on his sides. The only way out was back, but as Antonio turned on his heels, he saw it blocked by a group of black-clad, faceless figures, like shapes weaved from shadow.

Frowning, the monk quickly made the cross sign before gripping the cross iron pendant hanging around his neck.

“That’s not going to help you…” a hiss reached his ears, followed by a wicked chuckle.

In the next moment the figures had surrounded him and their cloaks were shed, revealing a group of young girls in scarlet dresses. They all had flaming red hair let loose and dancing around their ghostly-white faces and their red-painted lips curled into menacing grins, an expression of sheer mockery in the hollow, black eyes.

“Antonio…” a sinister voice cooed and a green-eyed blonde stepped forth from behind the others, reaching towards the Chief Inquisitor’s face with a black-clawed hand.

He took a step back, startled, and tried to pray but found that his mouth would not open. The blonde girl drew closer, petal lips stretching into a horrible, sharp-toothed smile as the wind made her golden locks whip over Antonio’s face.

“Where is your power now?!” she laughed manically before shoving the monk backwards with both hands.

“Behold!” another girl shouted, catching the Spaniard from behind and shoving him in another direction.

“The _mighty_ Chief Inquisitor!”

“Bastard!”

“Fool!”

“Sinner!”

“Filth!”

They kept pushing him around back and forth between them for a while shouting profanities, until finally the blonde grabbed Antonio by the throat and shoved his back into a stone wall, nearly knocking the wind out of him.

“Y-You witches! Devil’s whores!” the Spaniard shouted, finally having found his voice. “You will all burn! BURN!” he spat, glaring daggers.

Anri threw her head back, laughing louder, then her clawed fingers squeezed his throat tighter while her other hand reached down and gripped the cross pendant around his neck, lifting it up so that he could see the ornate metal helplessly contorting between her fingers. Then she released it, showing the monk her unscathed hand.

“ _You_ will burn before me, you little bastard! You think we don’t know you? Huh? Everyone thinks you’re a saint, but we know better…You’re a sinner, you already want _what you shouldn’t be wanting_ …” she drawled, shaking her head. “And you think you know everything, you think you see everything, you think you hear everything but you know nothing, you fool! Because you’re already burning, you burn into the flames of your unrequited desire… That’s why you’re blind to what you should be seeing.” Anri drew closer, her thumb rubbing teasingly over the Antonio’s bottom lip. “The one who summons _me_ every night is the one _you_ fruitlessly crave for when you’re alone in that cold, hard bed… _Lovino Vargas_.”

The last two words rolled sensuously off her tongue before the succubus craned her neck up and pressed her mouth against the Chief Inquisitor’s passionately.

“You can taste him on my lips, can’t you? He’s mine… _all_ _mine_ ,” Anri threw disdainfully, finally releasing the monk and pulling away.

A moment later all the girls had vanished from sight and Antonio dropped to his knees trembling, eyes wide with an empty stare, shaky fingertips rising to touch his own lips.

* * *

 

“How did he die?”

Lovino’s face was pale against the black, stiff collar of his robes, hazel eyes surrounded by barely noticeable shadows as he leaned over the simple, unpolished wooden coffin containing his younger brother’s body. The candles burning around in the chapel were casting dancing shadows over Feliciano’s cheeks, giving them more of a warm, honey tan rather that the wax pallor of death.

“The doctor said it was most likely a bad case of food poisoning, _Eccellenza_ ,” the manservant explained, head bowed. “His state deteriorated rapidly and there was nothing to be done…”

“Perhaps… perhaps we were fooled,” the older Vargas mused out loud. “Perhaps his recovery was only apparent, but in truth it was all deceit. Maybe he was only pretending to feel better so that I wouldn’t be worried… Or maybe after what happened he’s simply lost his will to live and couldn’t resist even the weakest disease.”

As he spoke, he couldn’t help thinking – as his gaze trailed over the young priest’s closed eyelids, the tiny shape of his nose, over the lips which had oddly not lost any of their color, all the way to the delicate hands clasped together over the silver cross resting over the black cassock – that in death his little brother had gained an odd, sinisterly enticing charm he’d not possessed in life. Moreover, he looked like he was merely asleep. It only bitterly added to the fact that the accursed Gerhardt Beilschmidt and that rabid dog _fra_ Carriedo had finally managed to take his beautiful Feliciano away from him, never to be returned.

Fighting back an angry sob, the bishop leaned in again and, one hand lightly covering Feliciano’s and eyelids falling shut briefly, pressed his lips onto his brother’s for the last time. In the next moment, as he opened his eyes, horror choked him brusquely – now Feliciano’s eyes were also open and he’d had a vivid sensation that the stiff fingers under his hand had twitched. The gaze of those eyes – glassy and with a peculiarly golden hue now - was both terrible and heartbreaking and Lovino let out a loud gasp, taking a step back.

Hidden in the deep shadow of a pillar, Ludwig allowed himself a light snort, nibbling his bottom lip. Let it not be said that he didn’t have a sense of humor.

Struggling to regain his breath, Lovino shook his head quickly and tsked, scowling. Annoyed by his own weakness, he drew closer and reached out with a hesitant hand, closing the young priest’s eyes again.

“Sleep, brother…” he whispered.

The next day he was arrested by the Ecclesiastic Tribunal.

* * *

 

“You should have seen the Chief Inquisitor’s face, it was so much fun!” Anri giggled, turning from the window towards the semi-obscurity of the small attic chamber. “Especially when I mentioned his precious, _forbidden_ bishop…”

“I’m sure it was and I hope it was useful too, because otherwise it must have clearly given him what he wanted,” Ludwig observed. “Namely the confirmation of what those whatever voices in his head are always telling him, that witches exist and must be burned and so on…”

“I didn’t tell him I was a witch!” the green-eyed blonde retorted.

“Well, you told him nothing in that regard, so the whole experience must have been a tad misleading. I’m not saying it as criticism though, he needed a little push and you gave it to him. Well done, sister.”

Anri pursed her mouth, coming to sit next to the incubus on the edge of the large double bed. “I really hope giving pushes will be enough to see master’s will done, because he will be angry enough that you sought your own purposes until now.”

Ludwig shrugged indifferently, turning towards the sleeping figure on the bed to admire the bare, slender body half-concealed by the blanket. He reached and ran his fingers gently over the soft, tar-colored plumage of the wing folded behind a slightly tanned shoulder glistening with sweat. The appendage fluttered briefly in protest, the figure curling up further, away from the unwanted touch.

“Oh brother, for all your great skills he still doesn’t like to be touched,” the succubus observed amused.

“He’s just been through a lot, but he will forget eventually… And as I’m sure you remember, the transformation is quite uncomfortable.”

Anri shook her head with a smile and stood, leaving the room.

* * *

 

His eyes wouldn’t open, but he wasn’t really asleep, just lethargic. Sleep was a luxury which had been denied to him a while ago, when even the tiniest sounds had started assaulting his ears and a slow-burning, itching sensation had taken over his skin, making him sweat profusely.  Rough sheets stuck to his skin and no matter how many times he’d tried to free himself from them in a hopeless attempt to cool off a bit, an unseen hand kept bringing them back over his body.

“Feli, you’ve slept long enough,” Ludwig said, leaning over the Italian and gently rolling him face-up.

Chocolaty eyes cracked open, meeting the low, dark beams of the ceiling and the rest of the small, hearth-less room before fixing on the blond. Feliciano blinked slowly, then suddenly jerked up into a sitting position, pulling back towards the headboard, knees drawn to his chest.

“W-What-…?” His eyes were wide now, the golden glow stronger. “Where am I?! What have you done to me!?” he murmured, hastily brushing damp hair away from his forehead. “I-I thought-… I was dying!”

Ludwig bit his bottom lip thoughtfully, too busy assessing his masterpiece. “You were,” he replied eventually. “And you did. But you said you didn’t want to go to Hell.” He leaned forward, with a lopsided smirk and a glint of mischief in his gaze. “Which I never said you would, if I remember correctly. I only said you would be mine.”

The former priest pulled back some more, his wings instinctively fluttering a bit with the motion. The sudden noise made him freeze in horror for a moment, then, very slowly, he turned his head towards the glimpse of darkness he’d caught with the corner of his eye and reached over his shoulder with trembling fingers.

A loud gasp parted his lips before his eyes darted frantically to the nightstand, where his silver cross pendant lay as a reminder of his past life (again, let it not be said that Ludwig didn’t have a sense of humor).

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you…” the blond warned him.

But Feliciano lunged to grab the jewel, intent on using it against the other demon. Only a moment later a sharp pain pierced his palm and fingers, shooting up his arm and into his whole body, tearing a horrible scream from his throat. He dropped the cross on the mattress, shrinking away from it on the verge of fainting. Black tears, like soot mixed with water, began sliding down his cheeks as he sobbed loudly, staring at the scorched flesh even as it began to heal.

_“Not all of Lilith’s children were birthed, but some happened by repeated transgression, which resulted in their eventual demonization.”_

_Demonization…_

“I-It can’t be… it’s not… not… p-possible,” the Italian mumbled, still panting a bit, black wings wrapping protectively around his own shoulders. “It’s not…” he looked up at Ludwig pleadingly. “I… I’m not… that bad…”

Ludwig picked up the pendant by the chain with the tips of his fingers, replacing it on the nightstand before reaching out to caress his cheek. “You are absolutely perfect now, Feliciano Vargas. No one will ever be able to resist you.” His arms went around the younger demon’s waist, pulling him in his lap. “And _finally_ I no longer need to be gentle with you,” the blond added with a sudden broad grin.

“Wha-“

Feliciano yelped in pain when the other’s mouth found his neck and sharp teeth sunk into the tender flesh like into a ripe fruit. His own fingers extended into claws, digging viciously into Ludwig’s shoulders as he was pushed on his back and the other’s clothes vanished, allowing his own wings to break free. The Italian growled through gritted teeth when Ludwig slammed their hips together, taking him roughly, and only a moment later used all his strength to kick the blond in the stomach and shove him on his back in turn, straddling him and gripping his wrists to pin him down.

The older incubus tsked softly, amused.

“You’re strong, but you lack practice,” he pointed playfully, before pushing himself back up, turning Feliciano around and shoving him forcefully against the headboard. The piece of wood shattered on impact and the younger’s cheek met the cold wall while Ludwig’s claws raked the base of his wings, making black feathers fly. Feliciano cried out as they mercilessly pierced the skin and bone joints, pulling him back on the bed face down.  The other’s weight buried his torso into the mattress as his hips were lifted and his head pulled back by the hair.

“Done fighting already?” Ludwig whispered teasingly between thrusts, his free hand raking the Italian’s side across the ribs.

An elbow caught him in the jaw as the brunet twisted in his grip and the pillow was hurled in his face, an explosion of white goose feathers mixing with the black ones littering the bed. Still, the blond didn’t allow himself to be thrown off this time, instead gripping Feliciano’s arms and pressing him back into the mattress with such force that the bed collapsed with a loud creak, the mattress landing on the floor in a flurry of plumage.

Bursting into laughter, Ludwig sat back on his heels, pulling the still scowling Italian back into his lap and brushing some feathers from his tousled hair. Feliciano caught his arm and sunk his teeth into the blond’s wrist, letting out a moan when the nourishing blood finally invaded his mouth.

“Now then, we scratched that itch, didn’t we?”

 

**_To be continued_ **

A/N 1 – You’re probably wondering why Antonio’s cross didn’t burn Anri’s hand, while Feliciano (and Ludwig earlier on) was burned by his own cross. There is an explanation for that and it shall be promptly delivered in chapter 12.

A/N 2 - If you’re looking for a good laugh after all the horror, you’re also welcome to check my latest published (and completed work) – The Love for Words That Lead to War. Seriously, it’s the ultimate trollfic. Also a big shout-out to my fellow author Letsnottalkaboutitaye, her works are amazing and she updates really fast too (unlike other people we know :)))).

A/N 3 – Speaking of horror, there’s more of it coming up because SpaMano, ya’ve been WARNED.

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12**

A/N  – Hello everyone! Some quick notes:

 _The **Directorium Inquisitorum** , written by the Dominican friar Nicholas Eymerich (appointed  Inquisitor General of Aragon in 1357) in 1376 was the definitive handbook of procedure for the _[ _Spanish Inquisition_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_Inquisition) _until into the seventeenth century._ _It includes definitions of various types of heresies, discussion of questions of jurisdiction, and proper trial procedure. The book was used as a manual for inquisitors, and gave practical advice on how to conduct inquiries. It also described various means an accused heretic might use to dissemble, such as equivocation or the pretense of insanity (Wikipedia)._

* * *

 

The narrow, barred windows allowed only a few rays of light to filter into the dark, austerely furnished hall which was the Ecclesiastic Tribunal’s hearing room. A long, black wooden table stretching along the back wall served as a desk for the Inquisitorial Court, while the rest of the room was completely empty save for a small wooden podium fenced on three sides by thin iron railings, where the defendants were brought to stand before the Court. No rugs covered the simple stone floors and no curtains adorned the windows, the bare walls blackened by smoke around the few torch holders. Unlike other usual courtrooms of justice, this place had been intended as a mere extension of the dungeons and purported to the same unforgiving practicality. 

 _Fra_ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo sat at one end of the long table, his chin resting casually in the heel of his palm while the long, slender fingers of the other hand drummed lightly on the open pages of the heavy, leather-bound copy of _Directorium Inquisitorum._ His eyes motionlessly trained on the book whose nearly eight hundred pages he almost knew by heart, the monk completely ignored the stir and whispers caused among the other members of the his court when the guards brought in the prisoner and secured his wrists with shackles to the iron railing of the podium. Instead, his voice addressed them calmly and steadily as he pretended to read.

“ _Punitio non refertur primo et per se in correctionem et bonum eius qui punitur, sed in bonum publicum ut alij terreantur, et a malis committendis avocentur,”_  he reminded the other inquisitors.

The words effectively quieted the older men, a few throats clearing awkwardly before one of them stood up solemnly with a paper in hand.

“Lovino Vargas, bishop of….”

Antonio’s eyes finally moved away from the book, across the floor, resting on the defendant’s bare feet under the rough black robes, pensively observing the nervous curling of the other’s toes.

“… you hereby stand before this Ecclesiastic Tribunal accused of heresy and witchcraft. Confess your sins and embrace punishment, so that your immortal soul be saved!”

Silence fell over the room momentarily, the Spaniard spying the quiet hostility in the young bishop’s tightly pressed lips, lifted chin and defiant glare, despite the ample bruise forming on the side of his face. He looked angry and rather confused, definitely not frightened. Not yet. Antonio stood from his seat and leaned against the side of the table, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Usually,” the monk began, again addressing the rest of the court. “Members of the clergy tend to stray from the right path because of ill-advised explorations of too much _philosophy_ in the obvious detriment of following our simple, clear and pure dogmas. However, this is no such case. This is the case of a man who has devoted himself, _given_ himself to heresy for the perpetration and subsequent attempt at concealing of a crime which may appear mundane, but which it is essentially the Devil’s primal work in this world – the soiling and corruption of innocent souls.” Antonio sighed, shaking his head. “Lovino Vargas, you stand accused by the written testimonies of your late brother, Feliciano Vargas and of the Archbishop Gerhardt Beilschmidt of Salzburg, as well as by the owning of this grimoire, which was found hidden among your private possessions.”

Lovino graced him with an open glare this time, refusing to look at the book the other was now holding up. “I’ve never seen that book in my life!” he spat. “Archbishop Gerhardt Beilschmidt of Salzburg is a heretic and a Protestant sympathizer and his testimony is a complete lie! As for my brother, you tortured him until he lost his mind, only God knows what you made him write!”

The Spaniard didn’t even flinch, his expression ominously neutral. He turned again to the other inquisitors, the grimoire held disdainfully between his fingers. “This book, while appearing to be a regular compendium of demonology… although, I ask you, what need is there for such a thing for one who keeps God’s law close to his heart?” He paused briefly, letting the words sink in. “Anyway, while appearing to be _just that_ , under that pretense, it is in fact a cleverly disguised demonical prayer book!”

As his statement was once again met with silence, Antonio sighed, opening the book and slowly flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for.

_“Lilith, please receive this offering of my soul. I give this truthfully and willingly._

_Teach me to be unafraid, to feel power singing in my veins._

_Help me to face and balance the shadows in my nature…_

_May the light of this candle burn brightly and guide your daughter or son to me._

_Protect me from the shadows and the darkness that would harm me,_

_And help me understand the shadows that will not,”_ he read out loud, eliciting terrified gasps and indignant whispers from the rest of the court, which only amplified with each word added. 

Lovino stared, lips slightly parted and fingers gripping the iron railing as it finally became clear to him that this had nothing to do with cardinal Bonnefoy’s plot to get rid of the Pope. And it had been the logical thing to suspect, since the damned Frenchman had mysteriously disappeared only the day before his arrest! But now… _‘Lovi, I want to ask-… I-I want to know if-… Are you an incubus?!’_ Why had his brother asked such a thing back then all the sudden, if not because this accursed book had somehow fallen into his hands?! But Feliciano couldn’t have planted the book on him, it was impossible, aside from that one time the younger Vargas sibling had never set foot in his house! No, someone else must have done it and it could only have been the hand of the German pig, Beilschmidt! The thought allowed sudden panic to seep in, because if an accusation of being part of the plot against the Pope could have been easily deflected (after all Lovino had not done anything about himself), this-…

“Lovino Vargas, you are a heretic and a worshipper of the demon Lilith,” _fra_ Carriedo concluded, watching him intently.

“That’s not true, I-”

“You have summoned the powers of darkness for your petty ambitions and desires!” the monk shouted, his countenance morphing from serene to menacing in the blink of an eye. “You have used the powers of darkness to become bishop at such a young age! And you have equally used Lilith’s witchcraft to seduce an innocent girl – Claire de Marcier – and to subsequently drive her into the depths of madness so that she’d take her own life and that of the fruit of your sin!”

“It’s not true! Everything is a lie!” the Italian shouted back. Like hell he was just going to admit to Beilschmidt’s absurd fabrications. How the bastard had twisted everything!

“What is not true?!” Antonio walked up to him and gripped his chin viciously between his fingers, green eyes burning with anger. “What exactly is not true? Have you not seduced this woman? Do you not have a daughter by her?! Her name is Sophia, isn’t it?! Confess!”

“I’m not a demon worshipper, that’s all lies!” the bishop spat, jerking his head away. “I became bishop because I had enough money to buy my position, just like half the clergy in Rome! And yes, I have a daughter, but so does your precious Pope!” he hissed, uttering the last words in a voice low enough to reach only the Chief Inquisitor’s ears.

Once more, the Spaniard appeared momentarily unimpressed. But then he leaned in very close, lips nearly brushing against Lovino’s ear. “I have always smelled sin dripping off you like a sweet poisoned wine, beckoning me ever so shrewdly,” he whispered. “You _are_ a worshipper of Lilith and just like her, you have become temptation. But you have made a terrible mistake, Lovino Vargas, seeking to tempt _me_ of all men, because God watches by my side with a ready sword and no power of Hell can touch me!”

There was a gleam in Antonio’s eyes as green locked into hazel, something which looked like madness but it was more than that – Lovino realized, finally gripped by horror – it was hunger, it was _desire_.

The thought was mind-numbing, because aside from his brother – but only because Feliciano had been special in a way _no one else_ , man or woman, had ever been – he had not for one moment entertained the idea of being with another man or had he ever been desired by another man! As for the Chief Inquisitor, who was the epitome of bigotry, such interest was unimaginable, but in hindsight it made sense…

It also meant that he was doomed, because Carriedo was a filth who thought himself a saint and who would have never admitted that the Devil’s voice in his head was his alone and not someone else’s ‘witchcraft’. But like Hell was this rabid dog going to win and be proven right!

“Confess!” Antonio pressed. “Confess so that your soul be saved, at least!”

 _“YOU ARE MAD!”_ he shouted in the monk’s face, willing his growing dread into full-blown rage. _“YOU ARE A RABID DOG AND A SODOMITE!”_

The Spaniard took a step back, a cold fury etched into his features. “Look!” he addressed the court, half-turning. “Hear how strongly the Devil roars through his mouth! This empty heart holds not an ounce of truth, not an ounce of repentance! It is truly unfortunate… Take him away.”

* * *

 

The guards promptly removed Lovino from the hall, dragging him down some stairs into a long room with low ceiling, which was dark save from the blazing fire burning in a large hearth. The flickering flames sent wicked gleams on the stained iron of the multitude of torture instruments on display.

Two bulky, half-naked executioners with leather-covered faces grabbed the young bishop from the hands of the guards and proceeded to rip off his robes, with practiced dexterity. They left him almost naked, only using a long strip of what had been his shirt to loosely wrap around his hips.

“Be very careful,” the old monk who had walked in with the prisoner told them. “The Chief Inquisitor doesn’t want his body damaged too much.”

Lovino snorted loudly, fighting to swallow his fear as he inwardly kept screaming ‘bastard’.  Did the Spanish dog want to make sure there was enough of him left to burn?!

The executioners forced him onto his back on a long wooden plank, securing his wrists and ankles with shackles at each end of it, then tilted half of the device on its legs at a steep angle, bending his upper body backwards with his head down.

“Confess,” the old monk droned, leaning over Lovino’s face in hopes of hearing the desired words. Instead of that, the other spat him right between the eyes.

“You heretic dog!” the inquisitor yelled, motioning with his hand.

A rough cloth covered Lovino’s face, half-cutting his air supply, and just as he began struggling for breath instead of air ice cold water came, invading his mouth and nostrils. He spluttered and thrashed helplessly against the restraints, one with the adrenaline rush, trying to jerk his head away from the cloth and the executioner’s hands. But to no avail and the water continued to be poured, searing through his airways and suffocating him, until what felt like an eternity later the cloth was brusquely removed and the monk’s face hovered above his once more.

“Confess!” the monk barked, roughly gripping the younger’s soaked hair and forcing his head up.   

The bishop struggled for breath, coughing up water and chest heaving, but his eyes still glared daggers. “You bastards! You filthy bastards!” he shouted between pants. “You drove my brother mad and you killed him! Your master is a hypocrite and a sodomite piece of filth-”

The cloth was promptly replaced over his face and stretched so tightly around his head that his nose was nearly flattened. Pain exploded behind his eyes even before the water came, adding to the burning fury and instinctive fear and making him lightheaded.

After the third time, Lovino stopped struggling, but not cursing. He was going to die, the growing weakness in his limbs told him so, but not give in, he would _never give in_ to the Spanish dog and confess to those aberrations! _Never!_

“He’ll just drown if we go on like this,” one of the executioners grumbled above him and he heard the inquisitor saying something in reply, but without being able to make out the words. His limbs were momentarily freed and his body was hoisted up from the plank, before the back of a heavy hand brutally hit him across the face and more water thrown, this time over his whole torso.

The bishop felt his bottom lip splitting, the sting vivid as his senses returned and he began to shiver. The room was hardly warm enough for his exposed, damp skin and more icy water trickled down on his legs from the soaked cloth around his hips. Then, the executioners forced him down on his knees facing the wall and pulled his arms up, linking his shackles to a hook nestled between the blackened stones.

The first whip blow bit viciously into his shoulders and Lovino flinched, biting down hard into his already abused bottom lip. Like hell were these filthy bastards going to hear him scream.

**_To be continued_ **

_Punitio non refertur primo et per se in correctionem et bonum eius qui punitur, sed in bonum publicum ut alij terreantur, et a malis committendis avocentur_ _(Latin) -_ _Punishment does not take place primarily and per se for the correction and good of the person punished, but for the public good in order that others may become terrified and weaned away from the evils they would commit._

A/N – You must be wondering why Lovino’s torture is significantly lighter than what was done to Feli – for a simple reason, Antonio is a hypocrite in denial, at least for now. Still, a word of warning to those who hope things will go a certain way or another: my dears, I specifically pointed from the very first chapter of this fic that it is a dark tale, above everything else. I never promised it ends well.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER 13**

A/N– Hello my dear readers! So, as of today I am back to work and guess what, I only managed to get like four chapters done in two weeks…well this is it. As for this story, if you haven’t gone through the roof already, you’ll do it now. If you don’t, you’re just as bad as me :P

-x-

Feliciano sat perched up on the windowsill, the icy winter wind barely cooling off his ‘new’ body, still suffering the early unpleasantries of transformation. He was only wearing a light, sleeveless knee-length tunic of sorts, open in the back because he hadn’t yet mastered making his wings disappear at will to be able to wear regular clothing. That and he felt the need for them to be out and free, relishing the feeling of feathers fluttering with the rush of air. This state of _just being_ , of just experiencing bodily, without the unwanted intrusion of thoughts was quite bearable, he’d found, but unfortunately it wasn’t going not last long.

They still resided in an old attic Ludwig and Anri had previously occupied without the knowledge of the owners of the house below - the faintest of whispers of whom he could now hear - a place dark enough and long gone untouched, very much fitting for night birds and other predators. 

“Feli, there’s something I want you to do tonight,” _signor_ Ludwig said out of the blue, watching him intently. “I want you to go and feed on the Chief Inquisitor.”

The Italian flinched, eyes widening in horror and nearly jumping from his seat. Just because-… No, he would never! He had drunk the other demon’s blood, but that was different, right? He wasn’t _human_ , so whatever happened between them…

“I-I can’t do that!” he stuttered, shaking his head quickly. “No! It… It’s impossible! Please, _signor_ Ludwig, I-… No!”

Ludwig’s eyebrows rose slightly, with genuine curiosity. “No?”

“Naughty little priest,” Anri chuckled, leaning over the blond’s shoulder with a wicked smile and wiggling her finger in Feliciano’s direction. “He doesn’t want to sleep with the Chief Inquisitor! Although truth be told, as much as I for one find nothing quite as exciting as Catholics, that one _is_ a serious turn-off…”

The blond observed his demonic child pensively, resting his chin in the heel of his palm. “But you slept with me, Feli,” he stated neutrally.

“Because you said that my body is yours!”

“And what a relief that was…” Ludwig observed with a light smile. Surprisingly, it held no malice, it was just that, an observation. His words had the remarkable ability to hold no emotion whatsoever, reason for which they _felt_ neither good nor bad; they seemed to possess… a perfect balance of sorts.

Still, Feliciano scowled, lowering his gaze as he drew his knees up to his chest. Admittance was rather shameful, all the more since this was something he’d also left out of his last confession. But now… there was nothing left to lose and he was no longer afraid. The invisible piece of string with which his mouth had been sewn shut for most of his life was gone.

“It’s because I’ve fallen in love with you.”

The blond blinked, obviously taken aback for once. Next to him, Anri flinched visibly, but then a broad grin widened her mouth as she leaned in whisper in his ear.

“Oh brother… you flubbed it.”

Ludwig tsked softly and sighed. “Feli, I’m not asking you to sleep with him. That’s not how this works at all, we don’t have to… how to put it? _Give something back_ to those we prey upon, unless we want to, of course. And I don’t want you to harm him either, just tease him and take a few mouthfuls, that’s all. You do need to feed properly, otherwise you will just grow weak and… it will be unpleasant, trust me.”

“But it’s _impossible_!” Feliciano cried, drawing backwards and wings wrapping protectively around his shoulders. “He lives in a monastery, on hallowed ground and surrounded by holy walls! And he’s a _monk,_ he prays all the time and-… and he wears a cross! If I try to go to him I’ll be scorched!” he pointed, the memory of that horrible burn instinctively clenching his right hand into a fist. “Why would you send me after _him_ of all people anyway?”

“Because you see, our work here is not done yet and-”

“Brother, you didn’t explain anything, did you?” the succubus cut him off. “He’s right to be scared about that, poor child…”

Ludwig frowned, pausing mid-sentence and pondering for a moment.“ _Mea maxima culpa_ , indeed it seems like I failed to explain something very important,” he then admitted, nodding slowly with a serious air and finally standing from the hard wooden chair.  He walked up to where the younger demon was perched and sat down next to him, a warm hand cupping Feliciano’s cheek gently.

“I wish I could understand what you feel… and know how to make it stop hurting. To make it stop now, in this very moment, instead of having to wait for this phase to pass by itself. I don’t want you to suffer.”

It was an odd statement, yet Feliciano found he couldn’t doubt it - _signor_ Ludwig had never purposely, openly done anything to cause him pain. It was true that he had turned him into a demon and this had turned out – not unexpectedly at all – to have been his goal from the very beginning, but from a demon’s perspective this was not evil, but good, not a curse but a _gift_. And from that perspective it was a much kinder option than what Gerhardt Beilschmidt had originally planned. It was as if _signor_ Ludwig had thought to protect him and this was the only way he could, while still doing his master’s will.

“Because you don’t lo-”

The other incubus’s thumb was pressed lightly against the Italian’s lips, halting the words. The cerulean blue of his eyes was as gently calm as ever, suggesting a fatherly sort of lenience in the face of a child’s justified lack of knowledge.

“Feli, listen to me… We don’t understand it because it is not _of_ us. It is a thing of God. Because this is what God is, _love_ , in its purest, most essential form. As for everything else, it is not the opposite but merely the absence of it. Just like darkness is the absence of light. Darkness is not hateful, it is just empty. But you already knew this, didn’t you?”

“Empty maybe, but not without purpose!”

Ludwig shrugged unapologetically. “Well… Anyway, here’s what you may have chosen to overlook, or may have been deceived to do so. The light of God’s love is indeed all-powerful and we are helpless against it, but its protection is only bestowed upon those who walk in God’s path, with pure and love-filled hearts. Now the Chief Inquisitor… has tortured and murdered countless people and not once, for one single moment, has he been in doubt about it, let alone _repenting_ , and that’s why no cross, no prayer and no _holy walls_ will save him from us. Do you understand?”

Feliciano exhaled loudly. “S-Still… we can’t… we have no right to judge him! We can’t judge him for what he’s done, it’s not… No.”

“We aren’t judging him,” the blond stated. “It’s a mere objective evaluation. And it’s not a matter of punishment, but of consequence. If someone walks into a lion’s cage, the lion will eat them. Not with the purpose of punishment, but simply because the lion needs to eat, it’s a predator. We too are predators, we too need to eat and we prey on those who by their own will summon us or by ill-advised choice make themselves vulnerable to us. We never feed on innocents, or on those sincerely repenting for their wrongs.”

Behind him, Anri chuckled. “Trust me, the more rotten they are, they better they taste.”

* * *

 

 _Fra_ Antonio Fernandez Carriedo spent his long evenings in prayer and contemplation, whenever he wasn’t reviewing the evidence against people his court so diligently prosecuted. And prayer and contemplation were useful, because often he would see a new angle to the problem at hand, or a weak point in a certain culprit’s defense. They had to be crushed and for this he toiled so tirelessly, because of their guilt he never had a single doubt. If they had been innocent, God would not have sent them in his path to find the salvation of their miserable souls. 

But as it had turned out, the Devil didn’t sleep either and not very long after his arrival in Rome it had sent the young bishop Lovino Vargas in his path. Now this problem troubled him greatly, all the more since his gradually growing suspicions had been so accurately confirmed.

It all made horrible sense – the she-demon Lilith, the charmer of the night, had given Lovino her dark gift and that was why… his eyes silently spoke of forbidden passion, his every gesture carried such unprecedented grace, and every word that left his lips was honey to the ears… Except when the demonic nature of his soul’s master had revealed itself in all its ugliness, proof of the deep-rootedness of evil in the young Italian’s heart.

Above all written denunciations and material evidence, Antonio could feel in his very core what the truth was. It was obvious that just like his mistress Lilith, Lovino Vargas was an ill-intending seducer who thrived and fed on the suffering he caused others. And the thought that he’d been taken for an easy prey by this nefarious character infuriated the Spaniard greatly, but his sacred duty was to save the man’s immortal soul. To make him confess his sins with a repentant heart!

It was well past midnight when, with these troubling thoughts, the monk finally went to bed. His room was miniscule and of excessive austerity, with bare stone floor and a sole grated window and empty save for a narrow, hard wooden bed without mattress or pillows and a small chest containing only some basic personal belongings.

The Spaniard stripped off his black robe, replacing it with a long, off-white nightshirt made of rough cloth before stretching onto the bed and wrapping himself into an equally rough woolen blanket.

Unseen by mortal eyes, Feliciano sat crouched in one corner, chewing absently on a thumbnail as he continued to watch the man slowly dozing off. He had no intention of teasing or offering the monk even the slightest promise of pleasure, instead he was awfully tempted to make the Chief Inquisitor feel for once the same bone-deep terror he was inspiring his helpless victims.

For a while he simply sat there, in complete silence, listening to the other’s every breath as conflict grew within himself. His mind told him _fra_ Carriedo was repulsive and that he couldn’t touch the man, he just _couldn’t_ , but the thirst in his throat told him differently and there was also _the scent_ …

_‘The more rotten they are, they better they taste’_

Slowly, nostrils flaring slightly as he allowed himself to be drawn by the aroma of fresh blood rushing beneath heated skin, the Italian made his way over to the bed, leaning over the sleeping monk’s face. His gaze trailed from the tilted head with slightly parted lips to the cross resting over the rough cloth shirt and Feliciano reached for it. If what _signor_ Ludwig had said was true-…

Hesitant fingertips ghosted over the simple metal symbol, then grazed it lightly. Nothing happened.  Feeling none of that excruciating pain from before, the demon closed his fingers around it more confidently, until it was completely nestled inside his closed fist. Still nothing. A loud exhale escaped Feliciano as he opened his palm once more to stare at it, the faint gleam of the useless object a complete mockery to his previous suffering. Brows furrowed, he gripped and tore the thin chain from Antonio’s throat and tossed it onto the floor forcefully before moving determinedly and straddling the Spaniard’s waist over the blanket.

Antonio was muttering something in his sleep, his expression somewhat tormented, as if he were fighting something or having a troubled dream, but the incubus didn’t care, leaning towards the tanned neck so temptingly exposed. But suddenly a pair of large hands gripped his hips and Feliciano pulled back, letting out a startled gasp and wings fluttering in alarm as he was momentarily seized by panic and completely forgot that the monk could not have woken while under his spell and certainly couldn’t have overpowered him even if he was to wake up.

 _“…no puedo mas… no puedo mas…”_ the Spaniard whispered, fingertips digging through the light fabric of Feliciano’s tunic into the thin bones with bruising strength. “ _Yo necesito… no… Lo intenté! Lo intenté tanto…Por favor, déjame…”_

The Italian snorted bitterly, trying to pry away the offending hands but still careful not to wake his victim. “Let you do what?” he inquired quietly.

 _“Lovino… por favor…Yo soy un hombre débil, tan débil! Traté de resistir, te lo juro!”_ the monk mumbled a little louder now _,_ hands moving upwards to Feliciano’s waist and starting to explore with febrile hunger, their intent no longer questionable as they pulled him down over Antonio’s body and moving to caress the small of his back. They were rough and clumsy, without an ounce of patience or consideration, let alone skill, reminding him of Lovino’s teenage years.

But… _Lovino?!_ The Chief Inquisitor was dreaming of _his brother_ that way?! Could there have been something between the two of them?! Could that be the reason why things had gone so ‘smoothly’ with his own interrogation instead of ending up on the stake like other countless unfortunates?! The unexpected discovery instantly turned Feliciano’s stomach and his flesh cringed under the other’s touch, a pained grimace twisting his features. Maybe _signor_ Ludwig knew about this and wanted him to see with his own eyes-… But then, if they’d delivered Lovino into his lover’s hands… what was the use of it? Or maybe that made it all the worse for both of them, because Antonio would have no choice but to-…

Still, thirst burned his throat, a pressing reminder of what was really of essence now and once his fingers gripped the monk’s hair, pulling his head back and fangs sunk into the heated skin as into a ripe fruit nothing else mattered. The taste of Carriedo’s blood was intoxicating, taking over his senses completely, like the strongest, most delightful liquor filled his mouth and he could do nothing else but indulge.

In turn, the slumbering Spaniard seemed oblivious to being bitten, now tormented by his desire above anything else.

“ _Perdóname, no puedo evitarlo! Debo tenerte! Debo tenerte ahora!_ ” he nearly cried, and Feliciano suddenly found himself turned around and his back slammed and wings crushed against the hard wood of the bed, the other’s weight pressing down on him. The monk’s large, warm hands found the hem of his tunic and slipped under it, creeping onto his bare thighs and forcefully pushing them apart.

Finally pulling away from the still dripping wound, Feliciano turned his head when the Spaniard’s lips searched his own, flinching and grimacing when they left a trail of sloppy, hurried kisses on his neck instead. His hands now roamed freely over the Italian’s body, somewhat brutally and with unrestrained hunger.

“ _Lo siento… lo siento… perd_ _ó_ _name Lovino, perd_ _ó_ _name!”_ Antonio moaned helplessly as his hips bucked and ground against the younger man’s, impatient fingers nearly ripping the rough cloth of his own nightshirt as he struggled to pull it upwards and free his throbbing shaft. He succeeded eventually, but just as he did the Italian caught the hand reaching for his bottom and guided it towards the Chief Inquisitor’s own need before carefully extracting himself from under the panting man.

“As if…” Feliciano grumbled between tightly pressed lips as he pushed the Spaniard aside and stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still satisfied though. “Damn it, what a hard bed!”

* * *

 

“Are you tired?”

Ludwig peeled away from the thick trunk of an old oak tree, his pale face the only thing visible at first as he emerged from the shadows.  The younger incubus stumbled in his direction with slow, unsteady steps, his new body already exhausted by the spells and still in need of a lot of rest. The blond scooped him up protectively, large wings wrapping around the smaller body like a soft blanket.

“I am disgusted…” Feliciano murmured, nestling his head in the crook of the other demon’s neck and closing his eyes.

**_To be continued_ **

_…no puedo mas… no puedo mas… = I can’t… I can’t anymore_

_Yo necesito… no… Lo intent_ _é_ _! Lo intent_ _é_ _tanto…Por favor, déjame… = I need… no… I tried! I tried so hard… Please, let me…_

_Lovino… por favor… Yo soy un hombre débil, tan débil! Traté de resistir, te lo juro! = Lovino… please… I am a weak man, so weak! I tried to resist, I swear to you!_

_Perdóname, no puedo evitarlo! Debo tenerte! Debo tenerte ahora! = Forgive me, I can’t help it! I must have you! I must have you now!_

_Lo siento… lo siento… perd_ _ó_ _name Lovino, perd_ _ó_ _name! = I’m sorry… I’m sorry… forgive me Lovino, forgive me!_

A/N – Now, after Ludwig’s 200 points explanation you may be wondering how come Gerhard Beilschmidt is keeping the incubi under control/making them serve him and why do they fear him since he sure as Hell is no pure-hearted innocent. There is (yet another 200 points) explanation to that and I will deliver it in due time, don’t worry!

And yes, Antonio is completely insane; if you’re still having doubts about this lose any and all of them now.

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;) Flames too (if your flames are blue and you have a black cat and a stuck-up brother named Yukio)**


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER 14**

A/N– Hello everyone! Okay so if you don’t hate me by now, all of you Lovino fangirl-ers out there, you will for sure after this because this chapter is _dark,_ you have been warned. Although, that hate is nothing but closeted love, keep lying to yourselves all you want :P

 

* * *

 

The thick wooden door creaked open, allowing the Chief Inquisitor’s tall, black-clad frame into the cramped stone cell, the man’s footsteps light against the thin layer of straws scattered on the floor. The Spaniard stopped in the middle of it, waiting patiently for the door to be locked in his wake while his eyes trailed slowly over the limp figure slouched near the wall.

The young bishop sat curled up on a torn, hay-filled mattress, his arms pulled upwards by the shackles hanging down from a hook. His head was bowed, dark chestnut strands of hair falling damp and in disarray over his forehead and he did not lift his gaze to meet the monk’s as he entered, or when the other walked up and knelt next to him.  The only movement he made was to pull his knees even closer against his chest in a mostly futile attempt at preserving what remained of his dignity as Antonio’s gaze wandered over the bare, abused expanse of skin which was now covered in a thin layer of grime. Still, the poor state he was in did nothing to diminish the accursed charm the Chief Inquisitor could feel emanating from his being, slowly taking over his senses and further clouding his judgment. 

“Why do you refuse to confess? Hmmm?” the Spaniard inquired, fighting to keep the growing irritation from his voice.

Although… it wasn’t that. It was despair.

He was losing, _losing_ , and he knew it the moment the tips of his fingers tilted Vargas’s chin upwards and those impossibly beautiful hazel eyes, half-lidded and surrounded by dark circles, met his.

Lovino was shaking under his touch, even as his jaw clenched with infuriating determination. He was nearly frozen, his back hurt horribly and his joints ached from the pressure, but he was far from broken just yet. “I will never confess to your lunacy!” he hissed between tightly pressed, colorless lips. “You are mad! You are a _rabid dog_ and you will rot in the deepest corner of Hell for everything you did!”

The monk nodded slowly, a soundless sigh making his chest rise and fall before his hand clamped around the Italian’s throat brusquely and he slammed the prisoner against the wall with all his strength, causing a groan to escape the younger’s lips as his ruined back met the ice-cold, rugged stones.

“There is no escape from this!” the monk spat. “What do you think your demonic mistress will do for you, you fool?! If you refuse to confess, there will be _NO_ absolution! Your soul will be destroyed!” His fingers dug viciously into Lovino’s throat as he spoke, nearly cutting off his air supply. “Why don’t you understand?! WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?! I-… I can’t save you! Like this I can’t save you!” he nearly begged towards the end, voice cracking and fading to an almost whisper.

“Then d-don’t fucking _s-save me_!” the bishop croaked, struggling for breath. “You’ll kill me a-anyway! N-No matter what I-… I’ll burn…”

“Your body will burn, yes, but your soul will endure! Your soul will know God’s infinite mercy,” Antonio replied, almost gently this time, his grip loosening. “All you have to do-”

Lovino coughed, panting and trying to jerk his head away from the offending hand. “All I have to do is what, admit to a fucking bunch of lies your madness has twisted in unimaginable ways?! I may have done many bad things in my life but I am not a demon worshipper! Everything is a fabrication and you have no proof! YOU HAVE NO FUCKING PROOF!”

Like hell he was going to give in! _Never!_ The Church had already taken enough from him – his youth, his ambitions, his brother, and now it would take his life too, but he wasn’t going to admit to a bunch of lunacies to ‘save his soul’! If there was a God, then He already knew the truth and if God was to pass judgment on him, the Spanish dog would have no say in it either!

To this Antonio snorted and shook his head, pulling away and sitting back on his heels. “You deceitful servant of Satan,” he whispered, “I have _no proof_?! I’ve spent all of my life in nothing but toil and prayer until _you_ tempted me! Until _you_ scorched my flesh with impure desires!”He held up his hands, palms open upwards, and stared at them in disgust. “Now this body… has become filth under your touch. _You_ have soiled God’s temple!”

The Italian shrunk further, uselessly trying to get away. Just how insane was this man?! “What the hell are you even saying?! I never fucking touched you!”

“ _DON’T YOU DARE DENY IT! DON’T YOU DARE!_ ” the monk shouted, lunging forward and gripping Lovino’s throat again. “Last night your soul left your body and you came to my bed! I had you in my arms! Your hands touched me, your legs were around my waist, your lips-… And this morning my cross lay on the floor, torn from my neck by your hands and my clothes… bore proof enough of what _you_ made me do!”

Lovino closed his eyes, cringing inwardly and finding it pointless to reply any longer, to deny anything. A pounding ache had nestled itself behind his forehead and there were too many words, too many and none of it made any sense, there was no limit to the absurdity. He just wanted to sleep. Or die. Anything but this.

“Confess!” the Chief Inquisitor whispered, releasing him and pressing closer, almost resting his forehead against the Italian’s temple. “…why do you resist me? Why are you doing this to me, Lovino?” Trembling fingertips rose to the younger’s cheek, ghosting over it in a shy caress. “Do you despise me because you won? Because I gave in to you?”

The bishop exhaled and sniffed, briefly licking chapped lips. “Just end this… Just end it,” he murmured, nostrils flaring and turning his head away from the other’s touch.

Antonio snorted bitterly. “ _End it_? Is that what you think I’ll do? No, _querido,_ it won’t be that simple… you see, it’s too late for that now…”

That was the last thing he said.

In the next moment Lovino’s legs were pulled from him and knees parted forcefully before he found himself lifted off the mattress and hoisted into the monk’s lap. He felt the cross hanging on the Spaniard’s chest digging into his bare skin as the other’s torso was pressed against his, then the Chief Inquisitor’s fingers digging mercilessly into his raw back. The horrible realization hit him in the same time as the pain and suddenly any torpor was gone, replaced by unforgiving awareness.

“D-Don’t touch me! _DON’T TOUCH ME, YOU FILTH! LET GO OF ME, YOU RABID DOG_!” the Italian screamed, struggling against his restraints and trying to kick the other away, but to no avail and his screams and curses fell on deaf ears. Antonio’s fingers returned to his face, a thumb tugging on his bottom lip, prying his mouth open and making him taste his own blood. Then the Spaniard’s lips crushed his with bruising force and the other’s tongue went to explore his mouth brutally, muffling his protests. Something inside the young bishop snapped, a wave of visceral terror washing over him and he couldn’t but struggle madly against the Chief Inquisitor’s bestial passion.

“ _NOOO!!! LET ME GO, YOU SPANISH PIECE OF TRASH, YOU SON OF A BITCH_!!” he screamed as soon as Antonio’s lips slipped across his jaw and down his throat, ignoring the new burning pain from his wrists, turned raw from struggling against the shackles and the blood now dripping along his arms and onto his forehead.

_ANYTHING BUT THIS!_

_ANYTHING BUT THIS!_

He continued to yell and curse, thrashing desperately against the monk’s body, even as his voice began losing its strength and fading to a coarse, choked groan while the other released him to fumble with his own clothing.

“No, sto-”

But then the Spaniard’s hand covered his mouth and agonizing pain ripped through him, forcing another scream muffled by Antonio’s fingers. The Chief Inquisitor buried his face in the crook of Lovino’s neck, trying his teeth on the tender skin there as his hips very quickly and impatiently settled into an erratic, wild rhythm, each push brutally rubbing the prisoner’s raw back against the wall.

With each thrust he was sinking deeper and deeper, soiling and shredding the very fabric of his soul, but there was no turning back. Oh, how he’d yearned for this apple of perdition, day and after day and night after night, but how much more he wanted it now after he’d finally had a taste of it! There was a maddening sweetness to sin he’d never imagined possible and it was consuming his whole being, making him cling desperately to Lovino’s shaking body and dig his fingers into the Italian’s flesh, pulling his lover’s trembling thighs closer around his waist.

His hand eventually slipped away from the younger’s mouth so he could bite the swollen bottom lip, blood mingling with Lovino’s divine taste and spurring him on like it would have a wild hound. Something wet and warm was trickling down on his thighs, enhancing his sensations as it cooled against his hot skin. This wasn’t his fault.

By now, Lovino had stopped struggling, he’d stopped trying to scream or protest in any way, only choked moans escaped him and his eyes were closed. No, this wasn’t his fault, the Devil had made him this gift, this offering and he was simply taking it, enjoying it to the fullest. With every glance, with every smile, with every seductive sway of hips cleverly concealed under the black robes of purity Lovino Vargas had offered himself to him, and if Hell had the right to take his soul, then Antonio had the right to take his body.

“…stop,” the bishop begged almost inaudibly, between sniffs, as the monk rested his forehead against his, panting and making the soft steam from their breaths mingle. “…please.”

Antonio was close now and his arms wrapped tightly against the Italian’s waist, lifting him up against his body.

“…s-stop… I…” Lovino’s head fell against the Chief Inquisitor’s shoulder. “…I confess.”

The grip around his body tightened even more and the monk craned his neck to press a kiss into the Italian’s hair, smiling.

“I c-confess! …please, just-… just stop.”

But nothing stopped, not until an eternity later, when all strength and will had left Lovino, his throat was sore and parched, his eyes stung even dry and the rest of his body felt like one large open wound prey to the freezing air of the cell. There was a horribly victorious smile on the Spaniard’s slightly flushed face when he raised his hand to stroke his cheek, ever so gently, lingering even as he kissed the younger’s forehead.

Maybe it wasn’t all lost, not just yet, Antonio decided, his other hand delving and extracting a folded handkerchief from one of his pockets. He shook it out with a lazy flick of his wrist before pressing it over the bishop’s nose and mouth.

* * *

 

_April 1545 (app. two months later)_

A rosy sun was rising over the jagged ridge of the mountains visible in the distance through the tiny, barred window. It was the first sight meeting Lovino’s tired eyes as he finally opened them and shifted on the narrow wooden bench which served as a bed. A rough pillow had been placed under his head and an itchy woolen blanket kept the morning chill away, reason for which the Italian didn’t try to kick it away at first. His bones hurt and his whole body felt terribly weak, as if after a grave illness. 

With some difficulty, he sat up, throwing a confused look around. The miniscule room looked every bit like a prison cell, except it was pristine clean and there were no chains anywhere. In one corner, an old monk was seemingly dozing crouched on a small stool, but became suddenly alert at the sound of his stirring and offered him a severe frown.

“Where am I?” Lovino demanded, or rather tried to, because the words only came out in a husky whisper.

But the monk said nothing in reply, simply standing from his seat and walking out of the room and the former bishop flinched as he heard a key being turned in the lock.  So he was imprisoned alright. But-…

Finally, he pushed aside the blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the bench, muttering a swear as his bare soles made contact with the cold stone floor. He stood, shivering a little in the simple black woolen robe which as it turned out he was wearing directly on his skin, tied with a plain piece of string around the waist, and a wave of dizziness washed over him with the sudden motion, making him bend over and support himself on his hands on the bench.

How long had he been asleep?! And why had he slept so heavily in the first place?!

Taking a deep breath, Lovino straightened his back – his last full memory was of the dungeon of the Ecclesiastic Tribunal, where he’d been whipped and-… But after that, there were only disparate glimpses, bits of consciousness among slumber which made no sense. Still, he could _feel_ that quite some time had passed…

Slowly, still unsure on his feet, the Italian made his way to the window, squinting when the crude morning light hurt his eyes. Outside, stone walls met his gaze and beyond those, steep mountain slopes dotted green with the first signs of spring under the clear blue sky. There was no sign of the winter he remembered and the landscape was entirely unfamiliar.

“What-…” he murmured, the breathtaking view doing nothing to appease his growing dread.

Behind him the door opened again and Lovino turned abruptly, eyes widening in horror at the sight of the Chief Inquisitor. Gulping, he took a step back, sticking his back against the cold wall and averting his gaze when the Spaniard drew closer.

“I see you finally woke up, Lovino,” the monk said gently, a light smile on his handsome face which made it all the more disturbing.

“W-What happened?” the younger stuttered, hugging himself awkwardly. “Wha-.. What is this?”

“Andalucía,” Antonio replied, clasping his hands behind his back with an expectant air. “This isolated place will do you good – here is where you will remain _in claustro,_ as a simple monk, and you will repent properly so that your soul can be saved. I will see to it that you do.”

The Italian blinked, uncomprehending. “ _What have you done?!_ ” he whispered, white in the face.

“I made them believe you died and I had your body stolen from the dungeons of the Ecclesiastic Tribunal, then from Rome and eventually from Italy. To make everything go smoothly I had to keep you mostly sedated for the duration of the journey here, you got sick but I couldn’t take any risks… You know that as per the law, even the _bones_ of heretics must burn, so all in all it was quite some trouble keeping you from the stake, all these precautions were necessary. But don’t worry, everyone ended up suspecting your friend the cardinal Bonnefoy…” the monk explained with the same blood-chilling softness in his tone, watching him intently.

Lovino inhaled sharply, fingers clenching helplessly in the fabric of his robe. He didn’t even dare think what might have happened to the Frenchman, let alone ask. He barely dared to breathe. Damn Bonnefoy and his stupid plan! He’d so foolishly overestimated the bastard’s chances of success and even to a greater extent he’d underestimated Carriedo’s insanity!

“But… _why_?”

Antonio sighed, shaking his head. “I suppose that, in the end, you won. I couldn’t resist you… and I couldn’t give you up.” He took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them. “But there’s still a chance-… you confessed, so there’s still a chance for you to be saved after all. I asked the Holy Father to relieve me of my duty in favor of a wiser man and maybe this was meant to be, just like this. Because _this_ is worth everything. As is my love for you.”

Lovino swallowed, his throat feeling suddenly dry, and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. This just… wasn’t possible! He couldn’t-… Even death had been denied to him?! Was he to rot in this monastery, no, _in this room_ for the rest of his life?! To repent… Was this repentance?! Carriedo was a hypocrite, there was nothing noble in his scheme, he just wanted to keep him as his pet, as his _fucking toy_!

“You’re mine, Lovino Vargas,” the monk whispered, slender fingers reaching up to stroke the Italian’s dark chestnut strands.

He flinched violently when Antonio’s lips found his and his hands fell limply at his sides, tears finally free to slide down his cheeks.

**_To be continued_ **

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**

A/N - My deepest apologies to a certain Roman emperor who wanted to see the world burn, starting with Antonio and Lovino. I’m sorry but… not on my shift. Nope. Even _I_ have limits, people :)))))))


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER 15**

A/N – Hello everyone! Guess what, instead of pestering you with more stupid author notes, I say only this: there are only two chapters left of this story (including this one) in which I will (do my best to) tie all loose ends and answer all irrelevant questions while leaving the relevant ones to torment you all into fucking afterlife. That is to say, if you want to flame me, do it while you still can. :P

* * *

 

Lovino shivered, mumbling a silent swear as he pulled the hood of his robe down almost to his mouth and tugged on his sleeves in a futile attempt to protect his frozen hands. The candle perched on the corner of his miniscule desk barely gave any light, the flame flickering constantly in the biting draft of the large, unheated hall adjacent to the monastery’s library. The Italian made haste rubbing his numbing fingers together and flexing them, not daring to waste too much time before he gripped the quill again, dipping it into the tar-colored ink and hunching over the page anew. He had to be very careful, both with his writing – for any mistake or ink splotch on the paper would inevitably translate into a riding crop lash on his already badly abused back later on, and he’d already done this page once until now! – and with memorizing what he was copying, because that too was subject to regular assessment and punishment.

All around him monks sat at tiny desks copying various books and manuscripts for the monastery’s extensive library and _Fra_ Carriedo had ordered him to work and study there five days a week, from early morning to midnight, the only breaks being for mass, other prayers and the excessively frugal lunches the monks were given. On the other two days, he had to work in the kitchen and help with cleaning.

His weak bodily state – painfully maintained by the meager meals, the cold he had to endure, the hard physical labor and the abundance of punishments – paired with the amount of study his nemesis was subjecting him to (Lovino had never studied so hard for his ecclesiastic exams!)had prevented the former bishop from giving any thorough thought to his situation. His imprisonment was most cruel, hellish even. The other monks, mostly Spanish, were in the habit of taking silence vows more often than not and he also suspected that Antonio had instructed them not to talk to him and keep any other interaction at a minimum. Damn, if only he weren’t so tired all the time, a fatigue that dulled his mind as much as his body…

But his situation was quite hopeless at a first glance, even if he could find someone willing to help him escape from the monastery, the Italian had nothing he could offer them in return (the Inquisition having stripped him of all earthly possessions there was nothing left to even _promise_ ). And even if by some miracle he _was_ to escape, then what? He was very far from home, in a foreign land, and Antonio would have had him pursued for sure… and then the stake would have awaited him, for sure. No, inside these accursed walls he was safe, or at least his life was.

Not to mention, even _adapting_ somewhat to this hell had taken all of his remaining strength and willpower. Two days after waking up in his new environment, Lovino had caught himself staring blankly at the string used to fasten the robe around his waist and pondering whether it was sturdy enough to hold his weight… But then, upon more lucid reasoning, he’d come to the conclusion that if he were to do it, it meant that the mad dog had won, that he had broken him _completely_. And he wasn’t going to let Carriedo win, not if it was the only fucking thing he could do!

Lips pressed into a tight line, Lovino scowled at the yellowish page, now adorned with a small but glaring, spider-like ink stain. He must have dozed off for a brief moment, heavy eyelids falling shut for a bit, causing the tip of his quill to linger too long on the paper and slip into error.

_Damn it to all Hell!_

Any mostly inconspicuous, correctable mistake which could be covered with white rice paste was ‘worth’ one riding crop lash anyway, but one causing the whole page to be redone and replaced was going to get him at least five… And it was almost midnight, there was no time for him to redo it and conceal the messed one, as he’d fortunately managed upon a few other occasions, when the old supervising monk wasn’t paying attention. To his luck, such dishonesty was inconceivable for the other monks, not only because they strived for absolute virtue, but also because in their case punishment only consisted in harsh verbal rebuking by the supervisor and working extra hours into the night to redo whatever they’d messed up. 

The bell finally rang and the Italian morosely dropped the quill back into the ink bottle, grumbling some more hardcore profanities under his breath as he stood from the desk. Hugging himself over the rough but still not thick enough fabric of his robe, he followed the others towards the exit.

* * *

 

The weather in the mountains was fickle, winter not letting up just yet despite the shy budding of trees, and a sharp wind was making the glass of the tiny barred window of Lovino’s cell rattle in its half-rotten wooden frame. After taking his candle to the small oil lamp hanging on the side of the wall under the simple iron crucifix, the young man’s gaze trailed desolately to the thick stack of books in the corner, at the foot of the ‘bed’. He should have read some more, there was yet some time left, but it was pointless and he was dead tired already.

Still, he picked the week’s book and knelt in front of the wooden bench, resting his elbows on top of the pages. It was futile - when a while later the door opened soundlessly and _fra_ Carriedo walked in, it was more than obvious that Lovino was fast asleep instead of reading, despite the tormented position he was in. 

Antonio said nothing, sighing softly in disappointment, but his hand resting on the Italian’s shoulder was enough to make the other jump from his slumber and mumble a quick, equally futile apology. This was going to add up to his count anyway.

“Tell me what you’ve learned today,” the monk requested in a deceptively gentle voice, taking the book and soundlessly flipping the pages to the indicated lesson. _Everything_ had to be quiet here.

Lovino sat back on his heels, head bowed and fingers clenching lightly in his lap. The lesson was a long chapter on the life of Saint Francis of Assisi. Taking a deep breath, he began to recite in a whisper the account of the twenty pages he’d had to study, and by the end of it he’d made at least twice as many mistakes, which the Spaniard was prompt to point out.

_Fucking hell..._

Just as he’d mentally started to add up those to what the two messed pages must have been ‘worth’ and to falling asleep, Antonio decided that it wasn’t over.

“So, _‘suddenly he saw a vision of a seraph, a six-winged angel on a cross. This angel gave him the gift of Christ’s stigmata’_ ”” he quoted.“How many wounds did he receive?”

“Two.”

The monk sighed, shaking his head.

Damn it, Feliciano would have surely known this crap…Inwardly, the older Vargas sibling cursed the saint and all saints _to the deepest corners of fucking hell_. “Uh… all of them?”

“Lovino… look at me,” _fra_ Carriedo said softly. “How many?”

“All of them. Four.” Obviously. It was both the hands and the feet, why the hell had he said two the first time?!

Lovino was under the impression that the shadow of a smile crossed the Spaniard’s face for the briefest moment. “Turn around.”

Silently sighing in relief, although he really had no reason to, the Italian obeyed, hastily tugging at the laces at the neck of his robe to loosen it. He’d not made quite enough mistakes for the day to pass out before the inquisitor was done using the riding crop on him, but he was quite confident that no amount of pain was going to keep him awake once it was over.

“There were _five_ stigmata, Lovi,” Antonio informed him, pressing his lips on the younger’s now bare shoulder. “You forgot about the spear, didn’t you?”

The former bishop squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck.”

“…what did you say?” Lovino swallowed, biting his bottom lip. “Did you _swear_?”

“ _P-Perdoname_ ,” he stuttered, gripping the edge of the bench and hunching slightly forward. The only thing _fra_ Carriedo was moved by was the use of his native language and fortunately Lovino spoke it fairly well. “ _Perdoname hermano, por favor…_ ”

* * *

 

Eventually, the inquisitor set down the riding crop with a deep sigh, resting his hands on the Italian’s shaking shoulders and pressing his mouth on the nape of the other’s neck.  Aside from that first time, when the horror had been just too much to bear, Lovino had never screamed or cried again, no matter how much pain he was in, but to his chagrin he couldn’t do anything about the almost convulsive trembling of his body, especially when the monk would make him bend over the hard bench and lean with his whole weight over his already abused back.

This time, Antonio’s embrace alone sufficed. The Spaniard’s passion wasn’t exactly excessive – as one could have expected, considering his prior level of deprivation – but it was constant and remained just as merciless as the first time he’d taken Lovino’s body. The Italian fought to at least calm his panting, hoping tonight he wouldn’t ‘get lucky’.

“ _Lovi, necesitas trabajar y estudiar mas, querido. Aún veo muy poco progreso y estoy bastante decepcionado_ …” the inquisitor murmured, grabbing the robe bunched around Lovino’s waist and lifting it back up on his body. “ _Si_?”

“ _Si, hermano._ ”

After that, thankfully, the monk stood up and left the room.

* * *

 

Fingertips danced over the side of his face, teasingly, and a body pressed into his back as he was sleeping facing the wall, curled awkwardly onto the narrow bench, the rough, itchy woolen blanket not quite enough to keep off the chill. But the body laid against him was soft, the touch between them not hurting his bruised and raw flesh, it was… cool and ghostly almost, yet Lovino knew it was a person and not a random, peculiar sensation woven of dreams. Still, he wasn’t afraid of them, he felt an odd sense of safety, as if this presence was soothing, protective even.

“ _Fratello_ , I have something to tell you, so listen to me very carefully now,” a soft whisper came, the fingers now caressing his hair.

The older Vargas sibling flinched, suddenly wide awake, but a firm hand clamped on his shoulder prevented him from turning. ‘Feliciano’ he mouthed, breath hitching and fists clenching the blanket as his chest constricted painfully.

“Lovi, I want you to know that I still love you, I have always loved you, even if … my soul was damned because of you.”

“Feli-”

The other’s body pressed closer, the arm holding him in place wrapping gently around his torso. “Shhhhhhhh… I’ve forgiven you, Lovi. But, _fratello_ , you have done many bad things and you will go to Hell if you don’t repent sincerely for everything and you don’t do something about it.”

Lovino swallowed hard, a cold shudder running down his spine. Suddenly he was horribly afraid, there was something very wrong with his brother, despite his gentle tone and loving words, there was a hidden sharp edge to them and the warning filled his mind, he could not push it away, it was inescapable!  The other’s touch loosened, allowing him to turn at last and sit up fully, forcing numb limbs into motion.

The younger sibling’s eyes were unreadable as they met his, a vaguely sad emptiness about them. They also had a strange, nearly frightening golden glow about them, striking against the dark shadows surrounding his eye sockets on the paper-white skin. And then Lovino saw _something_ behind his brother’s back, something like large wings, tar-black, and forgot how to breathe.

“B-But-… what can I do now?” the former bishop stuttered, hypnotized by that inhuman gaze and almost unable to form coherent thoughts.

Feliciano, who had also sat up in one smooth motion, leaned closer and whispered something in his ear.

“N-No, I can’t… I-It’s impossible!” the other shook his head, moving as if to draw back. “They’ve taken everything from me, I have n-nothing left and I’m locked up in here, I’ll probably never-”

The younger Vargas tilted his head, pensively. “But _fratello, fra_ Carriedo can help with that if you ask him. He is your lover, isn’t he?”

Lovino flinched at how those words had sounded on his brother’s lips – cold and calculated, with no trace of insinuation or pained accusation, just… completely emotionless. Like it was a simple, random fact he couldn’t be bothered to care about.

“No, Feli, don’t-… don’t say that! He’s not my lover, I hate him, I’ll never forgive him for what he did to you!”

“Then make him your lover.”

Lovino’s hand flew up to cover his mouth, nails digging painfully into his own cheek as he shook his head. He wanted to cry, but tears refused to come. What… what was Feliciano asking him?! And why was he doing it with such ease, like it was nothing, _nothing_?!

“Look at this place, Lovi,” the incubus said with a sigh, his blank expression softening. “Look at these grates,” he pointed towards the small window. “ _You_ may deserve this, but not _her_. At least… do this so that your soul can be saved, if you care for nothing else.”

His brother was right – he had not even thought about it, _not ever_ , because he had not cared. He wasn’t a good man and had never claimed to be, either, but now…

“ _Fratello_ , don’t leave me! P-Please…” he mumbled under his tightened fingers, no longer looking the other in the eye.

But then Feliciano smiled lightly, reaching out to pry his hand away from his mouth and leaned closer again, this time pressing his lips softly against Lovino’s, like the older sibling had done countless times before, whenever his brutal passion was fading into a gentler mood. Cool fingers gripped Lovino’s nape, pulling him closer, and Feliciano’s tongue slipped into his mouth, exploring it with an unfamiliar sensuality.

It felt wrong, maybe because it was Feliciano who had started it, still, he didn’t pull away, he would have let his brother do with him whatever he wanted now. He never saw the hand wrapping around his waist extending into a black claw, his head falling back with a sigh and eyes closing as the younger’s lips slipped from his, across his cheek and down his jaw line, eventually finding his throat. He never felt the bite either. 

* * *

 

Antonio let out a deep, relieved sigh, shifting behind him. He’d not made so many mistakes today and the inquisitor was probably pleased with his progress, even if he wasn’t going to say it. Still, Lovino’s back hurt, badly, causing his chest to heave, and he fought the urge to hug and rub his upper arms.

His lips were parched and his throat dry, he didn’t think he could utter any words just now. But he had to.

“ _Hermano, yo querria… pedirle algo, si es posible? Como un favor, pero no es para mi, te lo juro!_ ”

“ _Entonces?_ ”

“ _Es porque… yo de verdad me estoy arrepintiendo, y necesito hacer eso para salvar a mi alma…_ ”

The Spaniard’s hands rested on his hips, guiding him to stand on his knees and Lovino closed his eyes, sniffing silently and fighting back a shudder. _“Está bien, me lo puedes pedir después,”_ Antonio agreed benevolently, beginning to pull the Italian’s robe down past his hips.

“ _Espera_ -…” The younger laid his own hands over the monk’s and turned slowly. Demurely worrying his bottom lip, he took in the other’s tall frame and took a deep breath. “ _Yo querria verle tambien._ ”

The brunet withdrew his hands, sitting back on his heels with a thoughtful expression that nearly had Lovino panic. But then Antonio’s fingers moved to the buttons and laces of his own robe. The damned bastard, why the hell was he so-… the Italian inwardly cursed when the black garment finally came off, revealing a tautly muscular but still slender body. Green eyes watched him expectantly, almost curiously beyond the evident lust and Lovino drew closer, raising  shy fingers to stroke the inquisitor’s cheek.

The Spaniard leaned in, prying the younger’s lips open with his thumb and brushing them with his own tentatively before kissing him fully, encouraged by the fingers now tangling in his raven curls. Still shaking a bit, Lovino wrapped his arms around the monk’s neck, moaning softly against his mouth as he sought the much-needed warmth of the other’s strong body.

Antonio didn’t let their lips part as he reached past the Italian to spread his own, larger and thicker robe onto the floor, and proceeded to gently lay his lover on it, removing his robe completely this time.

“ _Ahora tócame_ …”

The former bishop obediently complied, despite flinching when his back made contact with the hard surface. “ _Por favor, no tan rápido… No quiero más dolor_ ,” he whimpered, nails digging into Antonio’s muscular back as the monk pushed his thighs apart to settle between them.

 _“Está bien,”_ the Spaniard murmured soothingly against his throat, lifting one slender leg to hook it over his own hip and teasing the inside of the younger’s knee with the tips of his fingers before trailing upwards to the back and inside of his thigh. “ _Sabes que te quiero… Solo tu me haces quemar_ ,” he breathed against the Italian’s shoulder, easing himself in and slowly starting to grind their hips together.  

Eyes closed, Lovino dug his fingers deeper into the warm, tan skin of the inquisitor’s shoulders and into his hair, biting his bottom lip until he drew blood.

**_To be continued_ **

Antonio is called ‘inquisitor’ in this chapter because, while he has given up the position of Chief Inquisitor, he still is part of the Inquisition.

 _Perdoname hermano, por favor…_ \- _Forgive me brother, please…_

 _Lovi, necesitas trabajar y estudiar mas, querido. Aún veo muy poco progreso y estoy bastante decepcionado_ … - _Lovi, you need to work and study more, my dear. I still see very little progress and I am quite disappointed…_

 _Hermano, yo querria… pedirle algo, si es posible? Como un favor, pero no es para mi, te lo juro!_ – _Brother, I would like… to ask you something, if it’s possible? Like a favor, but it’s not for me, I swear!_

 _Entonces?_ – _Then?_

 _Es porque… yo de verdad me estoy arrepintiendo, y necesito hacer eso para salvar a mi alma…_ \- _It’s because… I’m really repenting and I need to do that for saving my soul…_

_Está bien, me lo puedes pedir después, - Alright, you can ask me after_

_Espera_ -… - _Wait…_

_Yo querria verle tambien – I would like to see you too_

_Ahora tócame_ … - _Now touch me_

 _Por favor, no tan rápido… No quiero más dolor_ – _Please, not so fast… I don’t want more pain_

_Está bien – Alright_

_Sabes que te quiero… Solo tu me haces quemar_   - _You know I love you… Only you make me burn_

To conclude, a quote from the English-dub anime: **“Another jerk bastard day, thanks to jerk bastard Spain...” (Pfufufufu)**


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 16**

A/N– Hello everyone and _WELCOME BACK TO MY CHANNEL_! (now guess which YouTube beauty guru I’m trying to impersonate) So here we are, at the final chapter of this tale of terror which has haunted me all throughout this summer, and I want to use this opportunity to thank you all for sticking with me for as long as you have, I really hope you have enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it!

**_Warning:_ ** _this chapter contains some awkward fluff and also an absolutely cringe-worthy example of our beloved Lovino’s letter writing skills. Ye have been warned._

_Also, Sophia is about five years old._

* * *

 

_Salzburg – April 1545_

Spring sunlight joyfully poured through the colorful stained glass into the empty marble corridor, adding to the air of luxury of the archbishop’s imposing residence. Feliciano stood with his arms crossed in front of one of the tall, ogive windows, glancing with an absent air into the garden outside. He was bored and _signor_ Ludwig had allowed him to explore Gerhardt Beilschmidt’s palace at will, with the recommendation that he remain out of sight of the archbishop’s human servants. Not unpredictably, the place had turned out to be quite boring as well and the voices of the numerous staff running about their business bothersome for his sensitive hearing, but his demonic parent had wanted him to go out ‘in the world’ and re-accommodate himself with it, around here for now, outside later on. Because the human world was mundane, bleak and troublesome and the children of Lilith were always tempted to forsake it for the comfort of shadows, but if they couldn’t blend in as mere mortals, they couldn’t hunt.

“Here you were…”

He turned slowly towards the hand reaching out to stroke his cheek above the white lace collar, elegantly crisp over his fancy, black velvet jacket. It was terribly bothersome – wearing so much clothing – even after he’d mastered making his wings disappear at will. The fabrics felt stiff and constricting on his body, annoying confines of pretended humanity. 

“Did you go to see master just now?”

He’d thought of paying a visit to Gerhardt Beilschmidt himself, just for the sake of looking into the man’s eyes, but he’d soon realized that he had nothing to ask, nothing to say to him. The archbishop was guilty of many things, no, of _some_ things, but as of late everything had become muddled and debatable, hard to put a finger on, and Feliciano no longer had the patience or the desire to bother with trying to get to the bottom of things. What was the point?

“Does something upset you, Feli?”

The Italian fought back a bitter snort, eyes still trained on the view, even as a thumb prompted him to tilt his head to the side, exposing more of his neck to the other’s caress. For all his claiming that _love_ was forever beyond his comprehension, _signor_ Ludwig still remained much more gentle and considerate with him than those who had supposedly loved him.

“I was just wondering… whether master is disappointed with the result of your efforts. I mean, maybe he’s angry that my brother isn’t dead?”

“But your brother _is_ dead,” the blond replied. “The Chief Inquisitor took very good care of it and that’s what master’s human spies have told him as well.”

Feliciano turned his head, staring curiously into the other’s cerulean eyes. “And is that what _you_ told him too? You lied to him?”

A shrewd smile curled the corners of _signor_ Ludwig’s mouth as he stepped behind the Italian and wrapped his arms around his delicate waist, pressing a kiss into his hair. “We don’t really _lie_ , it’s more about… convenient omissions here and there. It works just as well, but in hindsight we cannot be blamed if someone believed what they actually _wanted_ to believe.”

“Like there are things you’re still not telling me,” the other incubus pointed with a soft sigh, nevertheless relaxing into the blond’s embrace.

“What things am I not telling you?”

Feliciano scrunched up his nose. “For one, the reason you all serve him…Why must you? He’s just a man, and surely no saint either, yet the other brothers and sisters seem wary of him. What could he possibly do to us?”

“It is because I didn’t want you to worry unnecessarily, Feli,” _signor_ Ludwig murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair. “It’s true that _he_ cannot do anything to us, but those he serves in turn can and will, if he should ask it of them. As you know, there are other creatures of darkness aside from us and far more powerful than us. And they are not our friends.”

* * *

 

Surprisingly even to himself, the discovery had made no strong impression on Feliciano and he’d asked his lover no more about it, silently concluding that at least his brother had been right when he’d said that Gerhardt Beilschmidt was a demon worshiper. A sort of jadedness had suddenly taken over him at the thought of the archbishop and it was only getting deeper the more he pondered upon it, it wasn’t even disgust anymore. Just as _signor_ Ludwig had promised, everything related to his past, _human_ life was fading, losing its taste, even bitterness.

_‘Do not regret it, do not cling to it. It’s only pain you’re clinging to… let it all go. Let go and be free…’_

He lingered by himself for a while in the deserted hallway, oblivious to the irrelevant passage of time and merely carelessly observing as the sunlit clouds gradually became bronze and golden, then the fiery colors cooling into a dark, peaceful azure as the sun went down, until all light was gone and darkness reigned once more.

The palace quieted, even the faintest murmurs dying in the remote servants’ rooms and at last Feliciano stirred, knowing he should have gone to get some food by now. Maybe one of the other brothers or sisters would-

Suddenly, the pitter-patter of small, hurried feet resounded somewhere ahead and the Italian peered around one corner, spotting the petite silhouette of a child drawing near, looking almost ghostly in the frilly white nightgown. Startled, Feliciano withdrew towards the wall, forgetting how to make himself unseen as the little girl padded forward, a bit unsure now and turning around a couple of times to ascertain her surroundings as she nearly walked past him in the dark corridor.

But then the child stopped dead in her tracks brusquely and turned towards him, wide eyed and tightly clutching a rag doll to her chest.

“… _Sophia_?”

He shouldn’t have talked to her, let her see him, he shouldn’t have been in her proximity, and he should have never even as much as laid eyes on his niece, never! But now all he could do was stare – Lovino’s daughter was the most beautiful child Feliciano had ever seen, dark-coppery locks reaching down to her waist and large blue eyes complimenting the flawless, porcelain doll skin. That and despite having quite different coloring, the resemblance to his brother was still striking.

“Shhhhh…” A tiny finger rose conspiratorially to the plump, round mouth. “I forgot Anne outside earlier and Nanna said it will rain tonight!” she informed, dead serious. “I had to go get her!”

The brunet sighed, tilting his head. “Okay, but you shouldn’t be wandering around all by yourself at this hour-”

“Who are you?” Sophia interrupted, a delicate eyebrow arching circumspectly on the narrow forehead. “Wait, are you Italian?”

Right, even if incubi could speak any language, in German his accent must have still been blatantly noticeable, instantly giving him away as a foreigner. And now he’d really screwed it, because nobody was supposed to-

Sophia stepped closer, miniscule toes curling against the marble floor as she glanced up at him expectantly, her gaze narrowing slightly as if there was something she was trying to figure something out. “There’s only one other Italian I know, aside from my _Papa_ , but he’s dead, he died a loooong time ago,” she shrugged, “My uncle Fe-li-cia-no. Are you my uncle Feli-cia-no?”

“I… H-How do you know this?”

“You’re Italian and you kind of look like Papa too. I’m smart, you know?” the child replied with a smug half-smile which brought dimples in her round cheeks. But it only lasted for a moment, quickly replaced by a worried frown. “But you’re not really a priest like they told me, are you?”

Feliciano shook his head quickly. “No, I’m not a priest, why?”

“Priests are annoying and they always give you a lecture about this and that!” Now, he could swear he’d heard this before, many, many years ago… “But they’re old and ugly, so you can’t be a priest,” she added in obvious relief. “But you won’t tell anyone you saw me here, right?”

The incubus bit his lip, humming thoughtfully. “Hmm, that depends… Where are your shoes?” he asked, pointing at the child’s bare feet.

Sophia stuck her bottom lip out, shrugging and stretching her arms upwards, prompting to be picked up. Tsking, Feliciano obliged, lifting her against his hip and reaching down to rub her small cold toes with his free hand. “Come on, let’s get you back to bed now.”

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” his niece pressed, resting her head on his shoulder, her free arm clinging to his neck and the rag doll squeezed safely in the crook of her other elbow. “Nanna is annoying too and she lectures me…”

The brunet feigned a yielding sigh. “Alright, I won’t tell anyone, but in turn you can’t tell anyone either that you’ve seen me here tonight. Do we have a deal?”

Sophia nodded and snickered against his collar, obviously excited of sharing a secret no one else was supposed to know.

Upstairs in her room the fat, middle-aged nanny slept into an armchair with her mouth open, snoring loudly, and the little girl rolled her eyes in a dramatic fashion at this, allowing Feliciano to lay her into the small cot and to tuck her in.

“Uncle Feli, will you come play with me sometime when no one’s around?” she whispered, as he leaned in to press a soft kiss onto her forehead. “Nanna is boring too…”

“I will.”

* * *

 

Claire was sitting in front of the small, grated window of her cell, thin hands folded into her lap over the rough fabric of her white garb, staring absently out the window with red-rimmed eyes. She’d had one of those dreams again, and her numb heart had begun aching anew, as if freshly cut into.  Her chest rose and fell slowly with each breath she was struggling to take and she didn’t even notice when the door opened, allowing her uncle’s massive figure into the frame.

“Claire?” the archbishop called, as gently as he could muster and almost afraid when her dark blue eyes finally met his. “How are you feeling today?”

Shaking slightly, the strawberry blonde stood from her seat and turned fully, one hand flying up to the cross pendant hanging over her chest. “Did something happen… with Sophia?” she asked fearfully.

Gerhardt Beilschmidt shook his head, but took a few steps forward, reaching out and lightly gripping her fragile shoulders. “Sophia is fine, but Claire, I need you to listen to me now, yes? I need you to be strong, do you understand?”

The girl only managed a constricted sound, shaking her head and weakly trying to escape his grip.

“You must be strong now, you have to! For Sophia!” Sighing, the archbishop pulled her against his body a tad forcefully. “Listen to me… Lovino is dead.” He squeezed his eyes shut and held her tighter, muffling her desperate scream into his chest, lowering himself to the ground as Claire’s knees gave away and she slumped limply, clutching helplessly at his garments. They remained like this until her crying fit died down and she finally lifted her head, tears now running silently on her pale, slightly freckled face.

“H-How-…” she breathed out. “How did he die?” Claire whispered, every word pure agony.

“He was accused of heresy because of a plot against the Pope he was involved in, and the Holy Inquisition arrested him. But he was lucky, I suppose, because he died before being sent to the stake and… I was told he died quickly,” Gerhardt lied. “But I would have rather spared you of all this, my poor child, believe me! I would have never-… if not for the fact that he wrote you a letter before he died. It’s important, please read it.”

The strawberry blonde reached for the already unsealed envelope with trembling fingers, resisting the impulse to bring it to her lips.

_My dear Claire,_

_I know I could never hope for your forgiveness, but as a man on the brink of abyss I’m only begging you to take care of our wonderful daughter and continue to watch over her like a loving angel. I am also writing to tell you that before the Church could confiscate my fortune and my property  I have managed put everything to our daughter’s name, so that when the time comes she’ll have the proper dowry to marry and have the happy home you and I couldn’t._

_Forever yours,_

_Lovino Vargas_

“Is this true? He has really… done this for her?”

The archbishop nodded. “I have the papers. Actually, he’s done it for both of you. Now, Claire, it’s finally time for you to get out of here and be a mother to your daughter. You have mourned him long before, now you must be strong. For Sophia.”

**THE END**

**And now I’m sad… FUCK.**

**Reviews and comments are LOVE ;)**

 


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